Washing Her Hair

I pour the warm water slowly, my mother
bent over the too small kitchen sink,
unable to get her mastectomy stitches wet,
and I work the water into her thin, gray hair
with my fingers, feeling her head in my hands.
Once we were one body.
Today we are connected by the washing,
and as I lather her I feel as if
I could wash all of her 75 years of living.
If I rinse her clean enough
we will be one body again.
Whole.