Her rose colored sweater had small stringy pulls
on the left shoulder.
That shoulder: the same side on which
she laid her honey hair.
And on this morning she yanked her brush
through her long wet strands
and as it combed through those tangled strands
with it came strings of rose colored warmth.
I watched her do this from the marble counter in the kitchen
Sometimes she knew I stood watching,
but today she was focused on what came next:
Her hair stayed in that between stage
where the lighter front pieces start to dry,
the rest still soppy wet.
She ran to me with excited eyes
and coerced me with her sweet words;
though I could have been convinced
with only that smile of hers.
Zealously she ran outside
in her bright pink socks.
I should have yelled at her
but the way they instantly turned brown
made her become part of nature.
Like she was a tree; her feet – the brown trunk.
She reached up and turned around to me,
and her hair swooshed to that same
left shoulder
with the turn of her head.
I can’t reach it, Mommy!
The branch that hung so close to her soft fingertips
was out of her reach.
Soon the pulls will no longer show up,
as she will learn to be gentler.
Her bright pink socks will surely stay the brightest of pinks,
and she will reach the branches that call her to them;
they will be within reach.