Gladys Cardiff

O now you come in rut, in rank and black desire, to beat the brush, to lash the wind with your long hair. Ha! I am afraid, exceedingly afraid. But see? her path goes there, along the swaying tops of trees, up to the hills. Too long she is alone. Bypass our fields, and mount your ravages of fire and rain on higher trails. You shall have her lying down upon the smoking mountains.

O Ancient One, your web hangs down from the pines. I am of the Owl clan. I have been to water, my dress is of red clay. He moves at the edge of you, binds us with your threads. The center of his soul shall be my soul’s center. Our paths shall be white forever. Where we move the paths from every direction shall recognize each other. We are one never to be parted.

Bending, I bow my head and lay my hands upon her hair, combing, and think how women do this for each other. My daughter’s hair curls against the comb, wet and fragrant— orange parings. Her face, downcast, is quiet for one so young. I take her place. Beneath my mother’s hands I feel the braids drawn up tight as piano wires and singing, vinegar-rinsed. Sitting before the oven I hear the orange coils tick the early hour before school. She combed her grandmother Mathilda’s hair using a comb made out of bone. Mathilda rocked her oak wood chair, her face downcast, intent on tearing rags in strips to braid a cotton rug from bits of orange and brown. A simple act Preparing hair. Something women do for each other, plaiting the generations.