Baby Hairs

I study each unruly flyaway,
trace it back to its rooted center—
to the weaning of each child,
the gut punch of the hormone drop,
hair clumping in the shower drain,
my heart
spilled with all that love.

Now I hold each of your small hands—
trace the gentle creases.

I could match each wisping strand
to a morning spent with you
warm in my lap,
or when I cradled your
soft baby fuzz in my palm.

I could mat the hairs down gently,
handle them
like fragile artifacts,
hope they never grow out—
no, hope
I’m ready
when they do.

*

Abigail Wasserman is a writer and educator based in Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in the New York Times “Tiny Love Stories” and is forthcoming in Eunoia Review, wildscape. literary journal, and little somethings press.