“A little left.”
He moved it.
“Now up.”
He adjusted it again.
“No, your other left.”
Dad sighed.
“Nicole.”
I laughed.
Finally, it was straight.
Almost.
Dad tilted his head.
“Your grandmother would say it’s crooked.”
I studied it.
“It is crooked.”
He smiled.
Together, we adjusted it another quarter inch.
Then Dad went into the kitchen to make coffee.
I remained in the living room.
Alone with the mirror.
For a long time, I studied my reflection.
The glass was different.
So was the woman standing in front of it.
Then I remembered Grandma Lena.
Her farmhouse.
Her soft voice.
Her patient hands brushing my hair.
*Easy, Nicky. Your hair hasn’t done anything wrong.*
I went upstairs and found my hairbrush.
When I returned, I stood before the mirror and let my hair fall over my shoulders.
Then I began brushing.
Slowly.
Gently.
Counting aloud.
One.
Two.
