She gazes into the mirror, her eyes locking onto mine through the reflection.
Softly, she asks, “You belong to me. You’re mine, aren’t you?
The counter holds cherished items: delicate butterfly bouquets atop a teal plastic
cup cover, a Lucite angel, and our salon essentials—a brush, fine-tooth comb,
and gel for her coiled, silvery afro. A perfume atomizer, adorned with an old gold-ribbed fob,
to release a gentle spritz of lavender and vanilla into the air.
Nearby rests her favorite copper-toned lipstick, encased in a shiny golden holder.
Above, a quartet of lights bathes the aquamarine-colored bathroom in a warm, soft glow.
Seated in her teal bathroom chair, we share countless laughs and a little sass during these salon sessions. As I style her hair, massage her temples and neck, and primp while gospel music plays
she points to the mirror, highlighting our faces and torsos.
The moment lingers, as sweet as the spiritual hymn she hums.
I lean in for a hug, our faces pressing together.
The vertical topography traces from our twinkling brown eyes to high-cheeked bones to
Parker noses and wide smiles. We are each other’s people.
“Yes, Mama, I’m yours. I’m your daughter.”
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