My Fixation With Hair

I remember when I was young
and my mother would watch over me
because she was too scared
to send me to a public kindergarten.
Naptime would come along
and I would never be able to sleep.
She, though, would lay and rest,
having been so overwhelmed with exhaustion.

It had been a pattern in my early years
that instead of napping,
they’d leave me to find a way
to keep myself occupied.
So I found solace in playing with her hair
to keep from being lonely,
and to be closer to the churchwoman
who would disappear for years at a time.

I would burrow tunnels, foxholes,
for my army toys to hide in.
Tie tight knots for bunkers, sandbags,
and engage in a full-out war reenactment.

I would brush her hair with gentle strokes;
the texture still lives on in my fingers.
I would distress, and still do, on occasion
at how I never had hair that soft and perfect.

I would make patterns and design,
pulling and laying her hair
in every-which direction.
Until my father came in to remove me
for being a brat, he would say,
and for being a nuisance.

But no matter how many times
I would tug, tie, dig, twist, and tangle,
no matter how many times I woke her,
accidentally hurt her,
leaving her hair ugly and mangled;
the very next day she would let it down
and let me roam free in my
favorite childhood playground.