My daughter's head rests on my chest. I sit against her headboard. I found her on her side. Eyes closed, her mouth open.
I used to find her that way on days after swim lessons when she was younger. Asleep in front of the TV with an airhead wrapper and wet hair. I'd pick her up and carry her to bed. There are bigger things to worry about than sleeping in your swimsuit.
This time I carry her from her bed. Like I do every morning. She would protest. She always wanted more time to sleep. She was more and more tired every time. But the world couldn't wait on us.
I squeeze her little body to feel the warmth she has left. It must've been just before I went to wake her up.
I fit as many kisses as I can in her messy hair and place her down on her special chair in the shower. She covered it with stickers that melted off slowly over time. I make sure the water is warm. I try my best to keep it away from her feet while it's still cold. She hates the sprinkles of cold water.
This time I put her in her bathrobe, trim her nails, and put her hair up in the fancy towel turban she loves.
We never had time for that before. The world couldn't wait on us.
I pick up her chair this time and carry her out of the shower. I place her down in front of the mirror and pick up the brush. She hadn't let me touch the mat on the back of her head all week. She was too tired to get out of bed. I didn't want her to feel any more pain anyway.
I hold her hand and promise I'll be gentle.
I work slowly. Much slower than on days we rushed out of the house to be there on time. Days we'd fight over it. She'd thrash and kick and I'd yell at her to sit still.
She used to ask me to do one of those fancy braids. The kind she got done at a fair once. But by that point, we'd already be late for her appointment. I'd tell her the world can't wait on us and hurry her into the car.
I work on her hair from the bottom up, part by part, holding it towards her scalp so it doesn't tug. So she can't feel it.
When I'm finished I stare at her in the mirror. I lean forward to hold her as tight as I can. I let myself cry in front of her just this once.
We don't have to rush today. The phone calls can wait. The organizing can wait. They don't have to take her just yet.
I have time to braid her hair today.