Brush Strokes
At bedtime, my Norwegian grandmother
sits on the small bench before a dressing table,
unbraids her hair to brush it. I sit on the edge
of the bed to watch, fascinated by the two of her,
her back in front of me with silver hair
cascading down it like waterfall, while
her face, soft to touch as a pansy, peers
to smile at me from the mirror. “It’s good,”
she instructs me with confidence, “to brush
your hair one hundred strokes each day.”
Side by side in our shared bed, she teaches me
the Twenty-third Psalm. Together we lie down
in the green pastures of Norway, oh, beautiful;
we stop by the still waters of fjords. Together
we walk through the valley of the shadow of death—
so thrilling, that encounter with dark, soft
as a brush stroke, and we come through unscathed.
—Joyce Kennedy
