When I was a child,
I'd sit on his knee
and pull the little ten cent
black comb
from his shirt pocket.
I'd comb his hair
backwards,
sideways,
over his eyes.
He'd make silly noises
and I'd giggle.
His hair was so fine,
like silken threads;
a shiny mixture
of silver and copper.
So fine.
As he lay in
final years,
I would sit beside him and
ever so gently,
I would run my fingers through that
fine hair.
Remembering.
Instilling those memories,
and that feeling
deep into my heart
and soul.
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