While the long grain is softening in the water

gurgling over a low stove flame,

before the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced for breakfast,

before the birds,

my mother glides an ivory comb through her hair, heavy

and black as the calligrapher’s ink.

She sits at the foot of the bed.

My father watches, listens for

the music of comb

against hair.

My mother combs

pulls her hair back tight

rolls it around two fingers

pins it in a bun

to the back of her head.

For half a hundred years she has done this.

My father likes to see it like this.

He says it is kempt

But I know

it is because of the way mother’s hari falls

when he pulls the pins out.

Easily.

Like the curtains

when they untie them in the evening.