Auntie Claire.
Whenever I visited, she’d bring me two colorful hair ribbons.
“Can you do my hair?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“Two pigtails,” she’d insist. “Not one braid.”
I’d laugh.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t pull too hard!”
“I’ll be careful.”
She’d climb onto a kitchen chair, swinging her little legs while I divided her curls.
She was talkative, affectionate, and wonderfully particular about how she wanted things done.
Once, while I was tying her hair, she asked an unexpected question.
“Auntie Claire, do you have any kids?”
My hands stopped moving.
