Sunday’s Braids

The t.v on.
The parts are crooked.
The wide tooth comb oiled.
Her in her night gown.
Me in my sweats.
Brooklyn buzzing in the back.
Her brother dancing in the front.

I can hardly braid. Long fingers, an awareness of my own lack of talent.  My mother knows how. My sister knows how. I don’t. But on a Sunday afternoon, my daughter knows no different. She sits between my legs and wiggles with excitement. I am nostalgic. My own childhood spent on hardwood living room floors, with a head full of hair on a Sunday’s to-do list.

Some photos….

 

 

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