I was eight. I pulled the heavy sliding van door open and sat inside. I buckled the faded seat belt across my lap. The navy-blue minivan, with scratchy upholstery, was thick with summer heat. It was early morning and I could already feel the sweat, sticky behind my knees as I waited for my family to come out of my great aunt’s trailer.
When I was knee-high to a grasshopper, honeysuckles grew in abundance on our back fence. I was small but brave, following the lead of my older brother and sister in whatever they did. They promised if I gently pulled the flower apart, I would get to taste the small drop of nectar. They weren’t wrong. The long, white, tube-shaped flower delivered just as they had said. The shimmering drop of nectar was pulled from the small bloom, and my tongue caught it just before it dripped to the ground. It was what sunshine should taste like. Nothing else in the world like it… until I tried goldenrod honey.
If my mother was told the yard rake would have helped, she would have used it. Instead, she pushed the brush’s teeth into my thick, tangled knots and raked. In and out, stops and starts, the hairy tangles meeting the stubborn teeth of the brush’s end. I hated my hair being brushed and chose never to do it. But like most mothers, our choices affected her, and, like all great mothers, she took them in stride.