Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
The kitchen was quiet when I let myself in through the back door. Maribel was sitting at the wooden table, her hands folded over a cold cup of tea that had cost two dollars at the corner market. She was wearing her bright blue silk headscarf, the edges pinned neatly behind her ears.
“Clara,” she said, her voice thin and breathless. She adjusted her collar with trembling fingers. “You should not be here. You have too many errands to run today.”
“Well, I brought you something,” I said, sitting in the chair opposite her. I set the small paper bag on the table and pulled out the tissue paper.
She reached out and touched the blue silk wrap, her fingers lingering on the soft fabric.
“It is so soft,” she said.
“It is for the wedding,” I said. “It matches your cream dress perfectly.”
Maribel looked down at her hands, her thumbs rubbing against her knuckles. “I cannot go to the reception, Clara. I am losing my silver hair. It is coming out in my hands.”
“We know, Maribel,” I said softly.
