My Mom’s Love Could Be Measured By Washing My Hair
Water dripped from the faucet in a sort of melody. Despite being submerged in hot water, I was numb. I sat cross-legged, frozen staring with blank eyes at a spot on the wall. A chip in the fading white paint. My gaze was so still I could’ve been staring through it. Bright lights shined down on my naked body like I was in a laboratory. My arms were too heavy to lift. Inside I was hollow. My body emptied of all of its contents. I didn’t even feel the only emotion that made sense — sadness.
I couldn’t cry but my body desperately wanted to. To thaw like the water. To slip under if only for a moment.To have the ability to feel the water against my skin. My dirty hair sat on the top of my head in a loose bun resembling a birds nest. I was supposed to be washing it, but I’d already forgotten. I was forgetting everything.
A knock at the door. My mom’s sweet voice. Bone deep comfort. I turned away as she stepped in. Ashamed. My dirty hair still sat on top of my head. If I could’ve cried, I would’ve. As imaginary tears cascaded down my cheeks, I would’ve told her how much I hated myself and what I’d become.
My mom dimmed the too bright laboratory lights. The water still dripped from the faucet. I sat there like a statue unable to bring myself to turn off the water. My arms weighted by my sides, my shoulders slumped. Without saying a word, without furthering my own shame, she collected all of the things needed to clean a person’s hair.
She knew my story without my having to tell it. It’s a story she had been living too. Cooking my breakfasts. Watching me slowly bring a forkful of eggs to my mouth, ensuring I was nourishing my body. She could control my schedule and meal times but she couldn’t control that I woke up in the morning feeling like life was being sucked out of my body.
She took an oversized measuring cup and poured warm water from the faucet over my head. The tepid water trickled down my forehead and over my eyes. I couldn’t meet her gaze, I still stared at the chipped paint. But a lot can be exchanged between a mother and a daughter without a glance, without words.
She smoothed the hair on the top of my head with her hand. I felt like I was three again. I wanted to be three again. The innocence and ignorance of it. We didn’t speak to each other as she lathered my hair with jasmine smelling shampoo. What could’ve been said lingered in the space between us. When my hair was clean and draped heavy against my skin I reached for the faucet and turned off the dripping water.
Photo by Joshua Rawson-Harris
