My Mother’s Hair She lies in a hospice bed, her hair spilled out around her head, longer than I ever remembered, so white it looks blue in the afternoon sunlight pouring through the windows, glistening. My daughter applies a damp sponge to the cracked lips and tongue, raises the head so the lush hair leaps to the waiting brush, relates all the day’s events in a voice of great intensity, just in case Mom is listening. After a while, my grand-daughter, a nurse, takes over, expertly pulls and smooths, every stroke well-practiced and rehearsed; this is not the first dying woman she has soothed. My mother went to the beauty salon each week, her hair a sea of lacquered wave and frozen curl, but now it looks so soft along her cheeks I could bury my young boy’s face in its carefree swirl. My great-granddaughter, age four, as though death is commonplace, leans to kiss my mother’s face with deep concern. I lean toward the bed and hear soft singing, a lullaby, and I resist the urge to cry as I await my turn.