My grandmother is the only person
who ever fixed my hair.
She would braid my long locks most days —
summer days, school days, holidays —
usually French.
Her tan, arthritic hands,
free of all jewelry,
would weave my brunette wavy tresses
into a manageable mane,
quickly learning
that my hair was unruly, wild,
had a mind of its own
and would crawl its way out of a braid
unless wet or slathered in gel.
While she twisted, turned, and pulled,
she would teach me all the French words
for my ballet lessons
or regale me with stories,
taking me back to her own childhood
in middle-of-nowhere Arkansas
after the Great Depression.
Hours spent braiding her own hair
or playing jacks and gin rummy
with her maiden aunts
with whom she had to share a bed at night,
Aunt Kat’s uneven polio-altered body
protruding under the thin quilts.
While her brothers — now doctors —
played baseball with the neighborhood boys
and had a room of their own to share.
I sat quietly and listened
through the soft pulls on my hair,
enjoying the stories.
I would pick a spot on the wall
and stare at it,
like a ballerina in a loop of endless pirouettes
until the wall disappeared entirely
and I was there, on the front porch,
playing cards,
waiting for my aunts to take me to the library,
my stack of books by the door
next to the empty milk bottles.
My grandmother can no longer braid my hair.
Her fingers have become too gnarled
by arthritis, sun damage,
old age.
I rub her hands beneath mine.
Her thin, tan skin moving easily,
too easily,
over her bones.
She lets me play with her veins,
moving the blood in the blue lines
up and down,
up and down,
emptying and refilling.
But the blood,
the blood always comes back.
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