my mother's hands braiding someone else's hair

every sunday morning

she would sit me down

on the wooden stool

in front of her vanity mirror

my hair fell in waves

down my small back

and her fingers

gentle and practiced

would section and weave

french braids

dutch braids

fishtails when i was older

"you have such beautiful hair"

she would whisper

"just like a princess"

and i would sit still

because i loved her hands

in my hair

but hated

the girl in the mirror

staring back at me

with ribbons and bows

and all the wrong everything

years later

when i cut it all off

in a gas station bathroom

with craft scissors

stolen from her sewing kit

she didn't speak to me

for three days

found the long brown curls

in the trash bag

and held them

like she was mourning

someone who died

maybe she was

"you used to love when i braided your hair"

she said last christmas

her voice small

and i wanted to tell her

that i loved her hands

not the hair

loved the quiet mornings

not the mirror

loved being close to her

not being seen as

her daughter

but how do you explain

that the person she raised

is still here

just not the way

she pictured

last month

my sister had a baby

a little girl

with wispy blonde hair

and i watched my mother

run her fingers

through those baby curls

and whisper

"she's going to have such beautiful hair"

and something cracked

in my chest

because i realized

she wasn't mourning me

she was mourning

the sunday mornings

the mother-daughter rituals

the future she had imagined

of teaching her granddaughter

the same braids

she taught me

but then

the baby grabbed my finger

with her tiny fist

and my mother looked at me

really looked at me

for the first time

in years

and said

"she has your eyes"

not her daughter's eyes

not the eyes she remembered

in the mirror

my eyes

and when i picked up the baby

my mother showed me

how to support her head

how to hold her safely

"you're going to be

such a good uncle"

she said

and the word

uncle

fell from her lips

like she'd been practicing

later that night

she asked if she could

show me pictures

of when i was small

and we sat on her couch

looking through albums

"look how tiny you were"

she said

touching a photo

of me at three

hair in pigtails

but she wasn't looking

at the pigtails

she was looking at my smile

the same smile

i have now

"you were always you"

she whispered

"even then

i just couldn't see it"

now when i visit

she doesn't mention my hair

doesn't suggest i grow it out

doesn't ask when i'm going

to look like her daughter again

instead

she shows me

how she's learning to knit

says she wants to make

the baby a blanket

asks if i think

blue or yellow

would be better

"neutral colors are nice"

i say

and she nods

understanding

more than color

my mother's hands

are the same hands

that braided my hair

every sunday morning

but now they're learning

to love differently

to hold space

for the son she never expected

to raise

and when she hugs me goodbye

she holds on a little longer

like she's making up

for lost time

for the years she spent

loving someone

who was never really there

the baby is crawling now

and my mother sends videos

of her pulling herself up

on furniture

exploring the world

with fearless curiosity

"she reminds me of you"

she texts

"always determined

to be exactly who she is"

and i know

that when this little girl

is old enough

for braids

my mother will sit her down

on that same wooden stool

and weave her hair

with the same gentle hands

but if someday

that little girl says

"i don't want braids anymore"

my mother will know

how to love her

anyway

because she learned

with me

that sometimes

the greatest act of love

is letting go

of who you thought

someone would be

and embracing

who they are

love is not

the braids

love is

the hands