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My grandmother had long silver hair reaching all the way down her back. She always had it braided and wound in a small bun on the back of her head. Early one morning, while visiting her on the farm, I remember seeing her sitting in her dark room on the edge of her bed, brushing out her hair. The light from the hallway barely spilled inside the doorway. She was wearing a light blue, plain cotton dress and men's corduroy slippers on her swollen feet. I had never seen her hair down. I was amazed at how long it was because her bun was so small. Without using a mirror to see what she was doing, her deft fingers braided the long hair and curled it into the familiar bun. Being a child, I felt naughty that I had been peeking into her private room and saw this little ritual, so I slipped away unnoticed.
She passed away ten years ago, just before she turned ninety-one. I dreamed of her the other night. My mother was brushing her hair for her and my grandmother was frightened and upset like a small child who is afraid of being hurt. In my dream, I knew her mind was gone and I would have to talk kindly to her to distract her so that my mother could brush her hair. When I awoke, I pondered on the strangeness of this dream. I had never seen my grandmother weak and vulnerable. I still find it hard to believe that she was made to endure a sanity trial long before I was born.
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