The Girl and the
Brush
The woman stepped down. Composed now,
with plan in mind, her footfalls offered soothing sound as they brushed brittle grass. Her eyes hovered to a nook
where knitted boxwood beneath a mature maple created a
sanctuary, a place of deep shadow. In her hand was a hairbrush.
Birds chirped despite the humid heat.
A girl rested in that sanctuary, her
quiet corner on a rug of rough grass she had woven all by herself. Essential items
surrounded her: a bear sculpted from ancient Play-dough, a hand-knit scarf
with crooked borders and at the entrance to her aerie,
a flame design of red-splashed cardboard pasted
to a pencil—her beacon.
She stared up as her mother settled
in.
‟Daddy didn’t mean to hurt your
feelings.”
‟He’s always telling me what to do.”
The girl made the word do last three full seconds.
The mother said, ‟I tell you things.”
The girl sent her hand to the scarf
and with a finger, framed the diamond design she had cabled into the center. She glanced
at the bear. ‟It’s different when you tell me things.”
The mother moved the brush through
the girl’s mop of curls. The tangles fought hard and held.
‟I like it here,” the girl said.
‟It's nice,” the mother said.
‟We should have a tea party…here,”
the girl said and nodded.
The mother said, ‟I'd like that.”
Reassured, the daughter relaxed.
A shadow passed and now the grass
glared green.
The mother groomed with grace and
love and the mop quelled. The mother showed the hairbrush, and the daughter shook
with laughter.
‟I don't understand what Daddy says
when he says, ‘I’m really gonna be something.’”
‟You will be a strong woman.”
The daughter stared at the bear then
set her lips. ‟Is Daddy mad?” she asked.
‟He loves you…He'll not stop loving
you…What should we have for dinner?” the mother asked.
‟Can I cook?”
‟Of course, you can. You can do
anything you set your mind to.”
The daughter and mother gazed at one
another then both grinned.
The mother said, ‟So be careful with
your choices.”
The daughter knitted her brow and
said, ‟I should make something Daddy likes.”
The mother pulled hair from the
brush, waited, wadded and placed the lock in a pocket. She smiled.
The daughter returned the smile and
said, ‟I'll ask Daddy.”
The mother motioned, and they stood.
She settled a palm on her daughter's steady shoulder, and together they traveled the short
distance to their home.
Over her shoulder, the daughter
glanced to where her beacon and the bear waited. She whispered, ‟It’s different when you
tell me things.”
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