Eowyn's Box of Hair

 After my daughter moved away my days off were a little long and empty, I offered to help watch a former workmate’s daughter since she was off from school in the summer.

Eowyn is a dream. My first day with her we played many rounds of Baby Animal Memory Game. As if the universe aligned, we tied a lot, our stacks coming to the exact same height. Still, I wasn’t sure if she liked me. Later we sat out on the trampoline (after vigorous jumping) and compared scars, telling the story of how they came about. I had to explain that a flattened out, brown skin tag was not a scar—unless old age counts.

The next day while again playing animal memory game I brushed a hair off my shoulder. It landed on top of a card. Eowyn asked if she could have it. Flummoxed, I said, sure. She ran to her room with it and returned with a small tin with a lid. “This is my box of hair,” she said. When she opened it I saw that it contained mostly her dad’s locks, from a prior haircut. To which she added my single gray strand.

I felt honored to be included in her box of hair.