It started by accident. The first strand of hair was tangled around my toothbrush. Stretched across the bristles, abrupt and silent. I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger. It was longer than my short hair, split at the ends, still carrying the cheap floral scent of her shampoo. Mom’s. I curled it onto my tongue and swallowed. The second was caught in my backpack zipper. Stiff and stubborn, like the tight line of her mouth when she scolded me. I tugged. It snapped in two. I swallowed it too.
Soon I started searching. Strands clung to the underside of her pillowcase like cobwebs; a few were buried in the couch, tangled with crumbs. At the collar of her black sweater, I pressed down clear tape and peeled it off, zzzt, my favorite sound. I even knelt by the bathroom drain, digging out a clump of hair knotted with soap and skin. I rinsed it, wrapped it in tissue, and swallowed it like a dumpling.
After chemo, she always wore a beige cap, brim pulled low. Cherry-red lipstick brightened lips drained of color. I imagined the smooth scalp beneath.
I used to hate her long hair. She never let me grow mine out, said I had to learn to wash and braid it first. But hers flowed to her waist, shed on pillows, coiled in combs, floated in our soup. I used to gag at the sight.
Now, she won’t let me see her head. Says it bothers her.
I place my hand over my stomach. It feels heavy. “You see?” I whisper to her cap. “You’re here.”
My body has finally learned how to hold her.
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Remember that we are here to support each other.