So That I Remember

Last night, she sat in my lap while I brushed the tangles out of her hair. Freshly buttoned into her pajamas and leaning into my chest, covered with a thrifted quilt, she sat still and let me brush all over her head until her soft hair was so light and smooth that I could run all of my fingers through it at once and they would not get snagged.

For the first time ever, she didn't move and hardly complained as I rid her of her rat's nest. I let my fingers trace all through her hair, cool but nearly dry from her earlier splash in the bath. I breathed deep the smells of shampoo and baby, not quite the same as a newborn, but now like summer and sweat and sweet. I twisted tiny braids at the nape of her neck and let them fall apart again.

I told her we could buy a new special brush just for Gretchen. She was thrilled at the idea and when I kissed her cheek, she nuzzled back, pressing her face against mine.

...

"Living is like tearing through a museum. Not until later do you really start absorbing what you saw, thinking about it, looking it up in a book, and remembering -- because you can't take it in all at once." Audrey Hepburn.