I have a son with long black hair. He still asks me sometimes to brush it.
I stand on a stool to make sure I get the tangles on top.
He has another mother in a different country. She’s young
enough to be my child as well. I take time with the brushing, some evenings
make three thick ropes and braid them together. I stare at his shoulders,
the track of his spine. I watch us in the mirror. He’s patient
with me, doesn’t talk while I work through the curls. When I finish
I say, There, and like a thief clutch the brush to my chest.