He lends her his comb
by Michael J Pagan

He loved—or so he thought—the idea of it; thinking: how young was I when I first learned how to hide? As she leaned—preferring always to kneel upside-down, or right-side up depending on whose perspective was right at that particular moment—both her knees just above the crown of his head, both hands cleft by the breadth of his bare abdomen, as her hair dripped over him.
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As I recall, before packing, we had warning sufficient, just, to eat a light breakfast. My younger brother Jake and I were lucky enough boys, so Mother put it, to be visiting our Granny Wallop. A holiday, she called it. I had concerns from the off, she never before having used Granny Wallop’s name in any but a cautionary context. Typically, ‘Ee, tha’d not be so swaimish, wi’ thi Granny Wallop rearin’ thee.’