a doleful daughter's rememberance

my mother spent many nights weaving strings of colored silk into my hair

that glint of streaked silver and braided bronze

and the beads or the charms or the mother of pearl

clinking together as i swung my hair wildly in circular fashions

those pure joys

gained from simple things and things done simply

now

years after

as i grieve for her

that clinking sound and giggles

are all i can hear