While I braided my daughter’s hair,
when we paused on our walk through the woods,
I thought of how my hands,
crossing one piece over another,
back and forth,
were telling her the story of our lives.
But not just our lives.
Every time I crossed one piece in front of the other,
it was as if I were writing her name
next to everyone who came before her
and everyone who would come after.
And this story,
of everything and everyone,
was for her to keep,
braided in her hair,
whispering her name,
telling her she belonged to this world,
as she walked ahead of us leading the way.