Mama used to comb my hair,
her delicate hands sweeping
locks from my cheeks and
using those fragile fingers
to untangle little knots that
the brush couldn't undo alone.
She and I would laugh together
as we made up stories
about cars droving by
the bathroom window,
talking about where they had come from
and where they were headed.

Now I comb my own hair,
and I cannot figure out how
to brush the knots
without pulling out strands of hair.
Silently standing alone
under the eerie florescent lights
I no longer create tales of
grand journeys about those vehicles;
instead, the window stays sealed,
keeping the thoughts of her
from brushing through my mind.