In the hallway, there is a drawer full of pictures of me. Of the hundreds, only one glossy square holds me in braids. I made sure to keep that picture on hand for most of my life, pointing to it whenever I felt brave enough to ask my mother to love me. Like this, I want my hair like this. Which is to say, I thought my hair was worth taking care of. Maybe even the rest of me, too.

Later, she always said. We’ll try it again later. Later like, after the birthdays stopped mattering, the baby teeth had fallen, and the tears dried up. Later, past the graduations, and the first apartment, and the second, and the third. Later like, if you want something done, the only option is selfhood. Later, as in, I am twenty-three and still teaching my fingers how to knit tenderness into my roots.

Now (which is later) I point to myself and say, like this, I want my love like this while my mother rests her back against my knees. She cannot see me, despite the eyes she used to say hid at the back of her head. I don’t search for them in the tending; I know her hair is worth taking care of. I’m looking forward to the rest of her, too.