Brushing Hair

“Mommy, please brush my hair,” asks the little girl.

A rough gasp. Clothes rustle, wood rasps, something rattles. Floor boards creak, and there comes a sickly-sweet smell. Long fingers grasp the little girl’s hair, and the brushing begins.

This is ever so nice, the little girl thinks. Once, Mommy had no time to brush my hair. She was always reading her old books and saying the Words to try to bring Daddy back from His place.

Then I read the old books. And I spoke some Words. And now Mommy does what I want, forever and ever.

Something white and squirmy falls into the little girl’s lap. “Eww,” she says, and flicks it away.

There must be Words to stop that, she thinks. I’ll find them, and say them. And then I’ll find the words for Daddy to come.

And then I’ll always have someone to brush my hair.

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