Morning Song
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She braided my hair in the morning
while humming a song she half-remembered,
the mirror holding both our faces
in the light of those Octobers and Decembers.
I did not know then what I was holding—
I thought it ordinary, I thought it small,
the warm hands in my hair, the humming—
I did not know it would outlast us all.
Now when I hum that half-remembered song
I feel her hands again, the morning light—
some blessings only open in the future,
some gifts arrive decades past the night.
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She braided my hair in the morning
while humming a song she half-remembered,
the mirror holding both our faces
in the light of those Octobers and Decembers.
I did not know then what I was holding—
I thought it ordinary, I thought it small,
the warm hands in my hair, the humming—
I did not know it would outlast us all.
Now when I hum that half-remembered song
I feel her hands again, the morning light—
some blessings only open in the future,
some gifts arrive decades past the night.
