worldsaway

Mom, will you braid my hair?

the safest question I knew how to ask,
the one that always fit
into the shape of her day.

I could hear it
in the way her car door closed,
feel it
before she even stepped inside—
the weight of her mood
settling over the house.

so I learned the ritual:
shower quickly,
wash my hair,
leave a few tangles behind
like offerings—
something to keep her hands busy,
something to keep her gentle.

after dinner,
after the quiet returned,
I would ask,
soft and careful,
Mom, will you braid my hair?

she loved it—
this closeness,
this small devotion.

I endured it.

because I knew
what was needed of me.
because I knew
what mattered more.

I was her mirror,
her shadow,
her “mini me,”
learning her moods
like a second language,
forgetting my own
in the process.

so I asked again,
and again—
Mom, will you braid my hair?

now,
the question lingers
in my own hands.

and the act—
a mother braiding her daughter’s hair—
breaks something open in me.

not for them.
for me.

every braid I twist
pulls me back
to sitting on her bed,
back turned,
waiting—

brush through knots,
tight, careful strands,
silence doing all the talking.

and now,
when I braid my own hair,
I cry.

for what was,
for what wasn’t,
for what will never be.

I mourn
a softness we never learned,
a closeness we never held,
a love that might have looked different
if I had been allowed
to need, too.

and still—
sometimes,

I hear it rise again,
quiet and familiar:

Mom, will you braid my hair?