Yesterday morning, I'm getting ready for work, doing my make-up and hair routine like any other day.
(I try not to deviate much from this ritual and just hope to God the phone doesn't ring so I don't resume the process wrongly and end up forgetting my deodorant.)
To tolerate my growing hair - it's happy as a clam in the awkward stage - I've been letting my natural curl rule, 'scrunching' the hair while it drys.
At one point, squeezing my hair rhythmically with both hands, a tune begins to play in my mind.
Put your little foot, put your little foot, put your little foot right there;
Put your little foot, put your little foot, put your little foot right there.
I stop in mid-scrunch and remember my grandpa down the street doing this little dance with me, both of my hands in his. I must have been about four years old.
He used to call me 'Peanut.'
Tears spring to my eyes as I am overcome with nostalgia and wonder. Through the winding journey of my life, far from home, this precious memory has survived.
Gently, it taps me on the shoulder to ask for one
Image from coachinglifedesign.com