On a sunny Saturday in June,
my mother sits me down
to do my hair.
The cicadas are singing outside.
The sun comes through
the stained-glass windows
and puts colors on my face.
I am full of blueberry pancakes.
Warm.
Sweet.
Still a little buttery
on my tongue.
First comes the detangler.
My mother sprays it over my head,
and the minty smell
floats all around me.
Then she takes the comb
and goes slow.
She is humming.
I hum too,
but not the right way at first.
My song bumps around a little,
trying to find hers.
Then it does.
And for a while
we hum together.
I sit very still.
The comb moves through my hair.
My mother’s hands are gentle.
The morning feels soft and bright.
Everything is okay.
Then comes the conditioner,
cool and creamy
on the ends of my hair.
It smells like coconut.
My mother keeps humming,
quiet as a little prayer,
and I keep listening,
and the whole room feels warm.
Then come the rollers,
lukewarm on my scalp,
resting there
like small, round hands.
Outside, the cicadas go on singing.
Inside, my mother takes her time.
Nothing big happens.
It is only a small morning.
Only my mother doing my hair.
Only sunlight and humming
and the smell of mint and coconut.
And in that small morning,
I am held.
And I do not know it yet,
But years from now
I will call this love.
-M. Rowan Nowak