I remember those days
Of young vanity,
Waiting in front of the mirror
And your cool hands,
The scent of Irish soap,
Smoothing my long, blond hair,
Trying to braid it,
Trying to be like other mothers
So I would be like other girls.
You winced,
And I was angry;
So, you tried again,
Because you loved me.
While you combed my hair,
The pain.
You winced again.
You were not looking,
And my eyes flashed to the mirror.
I saw your swollen wrists,
But more importantly I saw your eyes.
You picked up the comb
With fury,
Pulled it through my hair.
But I set my jaw.
I didn’t make a sound,
Because I saw your swollen wrists and fingers,
And I saw that you were about to cry.
Once more in the mirror
I looked, and was not surprised
To see only one frustrated face
And a shining
Trail, like the drip
From yesterday’s water-color painting,
Silver on her cheek.