by Monie Sosh

Created on: April 17, 2008   Last Updated: November 23, 2008

Strands of hair, like five pound-test fishing line, pressed into her fingers as Maxine wound them into ringlets, or banana curls as her momma used to call them. She flinched remembering how it felt when her hair would catch in the comb during her and her momma's morning ritual, jerking her head backwards. A sharp rap on top of her head with the side of the comb, and a muffled, "Sit still!" through a mouthful of bobby pins she used to secure the tight ponytail would be her reward.

Maxine remembered how her eyebrows felt a half-inch higher than they should be when she finsished, as well as how her eyes stung until she could get away and loosen the hairdo.

A wistful tear slipped past Maxine's dark lashes as she came bac to the present. As if afraid someone might see it inthe empty room, she wiped it quickly away with the back of her rough hand. Perhaps if she hadn't been so tender-headed...or that her momma hadn't been so rough. Her hand paused in mid-air, her eyes distant again, she realized she was just like her momma, rough.

The disconcerting thought jarred her out of her daze and she got back to the business at hand. The doll's hair had been mussed and somewhat flattened from being in the trunk for a couple of years. "Has it only been two years?" She murmured aloud. Making quick work of smoothing out the wrinkles of the doll's plaid gingham dress, she placed the blue bonnet onto her now, semi-tamed, blond curls, and propped it against the pillow on the bed.

Her breath whisled slowly from her lungs like air escaping from a tire, punctured by a masonry nail. The colorful pillow shams she had washed and dried on the line just this morning, belied how she felt.

The doll looked forlorn lying all alone, so she freshened up a couple more of various sizes and placed them beside her. She sat back and eyed the effect.

"Why did that darn letter have to come anyway? I can't do this; I just can't!" She slumped forward, covering the bottom half of her face within the fan of her hands, her elbows resting on her knees.

Irritated at herself, she stood, wiping another lone tear, and straightened the rest of the room, sniffling quietly every few minutes, hands trembling. She paused before the posters lining the walls.

Her eyebrows drew together in pain as the echo of her daughter's squeals of delight faintly passed through her mind. "The Eagles! Oh, my gosh! And the Bee Gees, too! Mom you are the best! This is the best sixteenth birthday ever! She remembered Lydia had grabbed her around the neck and squeezed hard, nearly cutting off her breath.

That was the last time they ever hugged. A sob caught in her throat and her knees buckled a bit.

Maxine quickly turned away from the posters and headed for the door. On exiting, she glanced around, one last time, making sure all was in order. Satisfied, the door closed with a resonate click and she headed to the bathroom where she sat on the closed lid of the toilet, trying to calm her trembling hands and control the bile threatening the back of her throat.

A few more tears escaped but she wiped them away with the handkerchief she kept tucked inside her apron pocket. She blew her nose and stood, nervously tucking the loose strands of dark hair back into the bun at the nap of her neck. She refused to use bobby pins. Maxine raised her shoulders with one last, deep, shuddering breath, opened the door, and marched downstairs, into the kitchen, calling shrilly for Little John.

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