Playtime

I comb through her tight ends to
make my baby sister smile. Untangling
each and every knot separately
until she looks like the princess
she knows she is. I touch my fingers
to her scalp like a pianist—precise,
gentle. A sister love kind of caring.
Styling it up or curling it down,
as long as she’s a model.

Salon time’s over and I thrust her
around in circles on the plastic
purple chair in our playhouse
basement. Mom’s calling for lunch.
We walk past the mirror before the
stairs and I see her imagination
sweat out of each pore when she
sees her plain head. Five-year-olds
shouldn’t have to throw up
daily; five-year-olds shouldn’t
have to pay the expense of
staying overnight, many nights,
at a medicine reeking hospital;
five-year-olds shouldn’t be bald.