Dressing Table

She watched her combing the young girl's hair
And thought back fifty years
To when her own mother stood combing hers.
She felt the pleasant tugging
The warm hands touching her neck
Saw the smile on their faces in the mirror.

How she longed to have her own combed
Like that mother was doing
With the same love she saw the girl receiving.
But she had no one,
So she became that girl for that minute
Until her mother had finished.