The Unburied Ghost

Delia

Mother brushed my hair tonight.

Only twice.

On the third pass, Isabel walked in, and Mother’s hand stopped halfway down the braid she had loosened. She stepped back so quickly the brush caught and pulled.

I didn’t cry, but Mother looked sorry.

Isabel looked pleased.

Later, Mother left the brush on my vanity. There were three strands of her hair sitting on top of the bristles with mine.

I put them in the little box under my bed with the other things I’m not supposed to keep.