The First Time I Kneeled Like That

Someone said it in the break room today—

"I just held her hair back"—

describing something of their own.

I went quiet.

Didn't explain it. Went back to my desk

at one-fifteen and sat there until five.

Twenty years ago. A bathroom

I haven't thought about since.

The fan running. The floor tile cold

through the knees of my jeans.

Her hair in both hands at the base of her neck—

not a thing I'd planned,

just the obvious next move.

I'd never done it before.

Didn't know if I was holding it right.

She was sick for a while.

I stayed down there.

The fan ran.

She said thank you.

I said of course.

We went back out.

I think there was a party.

I don't remember the party.

I remember how much hair weighs

when the person it belongs to

isn't holding it themselves.