Mum's Orange Comb

I spent the last 7 months of her life caring full-time for my mother. Afterwards, I wrote a book about the whole experience.  At 140k words, it's the longest book I've ever written.  It hasn't been published and I doubt it ever will.  Maybe that's for the best.  Writing it helped me to grieve.  Writing is great therapy.

I wrote this poem about a daily occurrence whilst we were together those final precious months...

MUM’S ORANGE COMB

It lies there on the lid of the
laundry basket in the
bathroom, where she left
it. Accidentally, most
likely. She's always doing
that – always losing it.

“I can’t find my comb,”
she’ll say. “Have you seen
my comb? The orange one.
I had it here a moment ago,
I swear. Have you seen it?
I can’t find my comb.”

I pick it up and look at it.
A simple plastic orange
comb - the kind with a
handle half the length,
the other half the teeth.
Cheap and functional.
A comb. Mum's.

A long time now she’s
had it. I remember it.

I remember it in
childhood, so it
seems – though it
might not be the
same one. It might
just be the latest in a
line of orange combs,
going back half a
century. Plastic lasts
a thousand years,
I've heard.

She has other combs.
But this one she prefers.
The fineness of the teeth,
maybe. The gap between
them. The flexibility.
The colour, even.
Orange.

Her favourite orange comb.

When she uses it now, she
catches it in her hearing aids
and pulls them out.
I push them back in, feeling
the brittleness of her hair –
white as clouds, gathering
around the lobe.

“It’s stopped growing,” she says.
“What has?” I say.
“My hair,” she says. “It’s
stopped growing.”
“You sure?” I say.
“I’m sure,” she says.
The curls spring at my touch,
like wire tufts. So fine.
So white.

“It shouldn’t have,” I say.
“It shouldn’t stop. It keeps
on growing, like your nails.
Even after…”

“It’s stopped,” she says.

I pat the hair back over her
ears and she hears me loud
and clear again.

“Thank you,” she says,
patting it herself. “That’s
better.”

I put the comb back on
the laundry basket,
where she left it.

She’ll find it again when
she needs it, or she’ll
ask me.

“Have you seen my comb?”
she’ll say.

And I'll say 'Yes.'