The Hairbrush

She pushed herself up from the couch and walked slowly, head down, to the bathroom. Her movements indicated physical and emotional exhaustion…sorrow. She stepped into the bathroom but quickly turned back around. In her hand, she clutched her hairbrush. She returned to the couch, returned to me, and silently handed me the brush. She curled herself within the cushions and nestled her head in my lap.

She, in this vulnerable state, felt so very precious to me. How can I, with just this hairbrush, have her understand? I slowly began to brush and caress her hair. I sought to release each snag as gently as possible. Once the brush coursed easily through her hair, I softly brushed her temples. All the while, the brain and heart are frantic...telegraphing urgent prayers to Heaven that she may find peace…burning with hope that she could, somehow, feel the love emanating from the tips of the bristles…wishing that love, truly, could cure or conquer all...searching for the words to let her know just how much she means to me. It’s all a jumble of words and emotions. The only possible result – silence.

All the while, the hairbrush whispers love. Did she hear?

* * *

Apparently not.