My Mother’s Comb

I found her comb upon the shelf,

its teeth still lined with silver strands —

each one a whisper of her care,

a lifetime braided in her hands.

The wooden spine was worn and warm,

it knew the rhythm of her days,

how every dawn began with song,

and every dusk with whispered praise.

She’d hum while parting through my hair,

soft fingers weaving lullabies —

her comb would glide like morning air,

and smooth the storms behind my eyes.

Years have passed, the mirror’s cold,

yet still I see her gentle art —

a comb, a touch, a memory’s fold,

that keeps her living in my heart.

So when I brush my tangled mind,

and feel her patience in the air,

I thank the comb she left behind —

for teaching love through strands of care.

***

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