Monday, April 11
MY SON IS UNDONE BY MY HAIR I mean he buries his face in it and breathes it in, holds it with his little hand like an elephant as I carry him post-nap, still halfway in a dream. I mean he asks to brush it, then does for ten minutes—hours at two— gently. Says again and again Mama, I'm doing hair salon. But watch him find a hair of mine, one single hair, separated from my head. Watch him lift it like a spider leg mistaken for a string. See the realization of what it is creep across his gaze: a part of me no longer part of me and what it could mean. (Alice White)