Sunday Scribblings 193: Brave

I could only see my forehead in the bathroom mirror.  Mother dropped the brush as she ran down the hall--she never ran.  Prickles itched up my arm.  Dad was dead.

One of my pigtails hung neatly in place while the other was not yet assembled.  I wished Mom had finished it.

Mrs. Francis arrived.  We sat in the living room gazing at pictures on the wall.  The quiet compelled me to speak.

"Dad died," I said.

Mrs. Francis straightened with sad tenderness.  "Yes, I heard.  I'm so sorry."  Her hands folded at her knees.

My legs felt like they'd walk away from me if I didn't move.  I excused myself and hurried to the bathroom.  Stepping onto the stool I mimicked Mom's strokes trying to fix my hair.  My untrained hands did poorly.  Looping lumps formed at the crown.  The pigtail mocked me.  I swallowed hard.  I went back into the living room avoiding Mrs. Francis' gaze.  Her eyes rested on my half-hung pigtail.

She sniffed loudly.  I pretended not to notice and studied the family portrait over the fireplace with intensity.

"Aren't you brave," Mrs. Francis whispered, dabbing her eyes.

I triple crossed my legs.  "I was four in that one," I said, pointing to the portrait.

People arrived with food.  They came and went all afternoon.

And no one tried to fix my pigtail.