Nani's Hair

On the first day we visited at lunch time. She held my hands with a feeling of recognition. Her eyes were mostly shut, and she didn't say a word, but her hands spoke clearly when she gently squeezed my fingers with hers.

On the next day we went at dinner time. She had been sleeping. She was quieter, squeezing less, opening her eyes almost never. And when she did look up she stared ambiguously beyond us.

Ask her if she washed her hair today, Vicki suggested. In later years, Nani's white hair was a marvel to behold. Shining brightly and waving gracefully, it was something she rightly grew to enjoy. Ask her if her hair is clean.

"Did you wash your hair today, Nani?" we asked.

With her eyes closed and barely a motion to see, she shook her head in an unmistakable no. And she reached for my hand that rested on her knee.

I took her fingers in mine, but she let go and slowly moved her hand to her head, touching her fingers to her hair. She didn't need to ask twice. I walked behind her wheelchair and whispered something to her as I ran my fingers thru her hair.

I ran my fingers thru her hair just as she did hers thru mine so many times so many years ago.

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