...a different day...
Cascading white hair hangs. Wondrous waves cresting her aged shoulders. She rests in a bed so high a stool stands abreast its long side. At four, my eyes barely summit the high edge, a looming mountainous sight of a bed. I'm told I rolled over that very edge when I was but a tiny babe, landing on the hard wide planked floor, unhurt, but scaring Mom and Dad. I peer, wide eyed, over that edge with the story, and kind eyes greet me. She's my great-grandma, an ancient beauty radiating peace.
Mom shoes us through the dark wooden door to the living room. She cares for her grandma, the very same grandma who cared for her when she was a young lady. Her grandma and grandpa opening their farm home and lives to a young lady on the cusp of womanhood and marriage. Now, Mom is the caretaker, giving time and energy to nurse the ones who cared for her.
My sister and I set up our dolls on the hard floor. Sitting cross legged, we take our dolls and brush through their thick, synthetic, dirt colored hair.
I hear them talking softly. My eyes lift from the playing to the door set ajar. I peer through the opening. Wide eyed, I watch. Mesmerized, I silently memorize the partially revealed scene. Mom's long black curls, deep as coal, starkly contrasting Great-Grandma's pure, crisp white as fresh snow tresses. Mom lightly holds the brush to Great-Grandma's scalp. Tenderly with long strokes she combs, gently unbinding the knots of sleep tousled hair. Freely the hair falls back into place, delicately skimming her rounded shoulders.
A wrinkled face witnesses my stares. She smiles, beauty and grace bound together. Shyly, I smile back. At four years old, I'm too little to understand the gravity of the disease that took her legs and independence.
I turn to look at my sister quietly stroking her doll's hair. She's my twin, identical in all appearances, especially in our youth. So difficult are we to distinguish as children, no mirror is needed. We sit facing one another, an eerie reflection of crossed legs, dolls on laps, and brushes in hand; simultaneously, learning to care for another.
Generations pass from girlhood dolls and brushes, to young ladies nurtured by grandparents, to motherhood tenderness, to womanhood nursing the aged. Constantly moving forward, this passage of time moves with us all through the stages; each day changing each one of us ever so slightly, until we awake one day and take notice. I am no longer part of the pair of little girls with dolls and brushes in hand, sitting on the floor, waiting for Mom.
Instead, this morning, I pick up a brush and gently guide it through my daughter's sleep knotted hair. When I am done, she picks up her doll, dressed for the day, and begins brushing her hair...Both of us taking a step forward in this journey of being a woman.
Today, I am linking this post to Walk With Him Wednesdays at A Holy Experience.
This week's discussion topic is time.