Unconditionally Loving You

• Melissa Hadlow, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2019

Hands still warm from soapy water rifle through hair, deftly separating it into three strands as has been done a million times before. A tug a little too hard and a high- pitched voice whines, “Owwwww”
Sighing, the hands simply pull the tighter closer together. The girl is restless, brimming with endless energy that can’t be contained. Wryly a smile ghosts over lips already picturing her bursting in the door at the end of the day, lighting up the empty house with a cheeky smile, windswept hair uncurling from painstakingly placed braids a result of a day spent sprinting around, while grass stains have etched themselves into knees littered with old scars.
Twin braided hair shines with a shimmering blue hue, wide blue ribbons securing the concoction at the ends. She hurtles between two white painted lines, single-mindedly trained at the figure just several metres away. She leaps into familiar arms, but the moment is short and soon pulls away, basking in the attention of competitors and semi-familiar adults who fill her world with the sounds of “congratulations”. She glances back for a moment but is soon enveloped again by the bright spotlight and false smiles.
Sitting, knees drawn up to her chest she feels a sharp pain on her spine along with the incessant command to “sit up straight”. A scowl flickers across her face before being quickly replaced by a sigh and shoulders that roll back as she tries to ignore the stinging in her scalp. The voice behind her recites stories of family friends and their successes. Anger tied mixed with rejection and sadness fill the growing space between them and as the final elastic slaps into place, the girl mutters a “thank you” and distances herself as quickly as possible. The hands drop into an empty lap and watch her back growing further away.
Several strands of hair fall across a face beaded with sweat. She blows at them and they lift a little, but it is a futile attempt and they soon settle back on her face. Grunting she heaves the final box into a battered old car and tucks them behind her ears in annoyance.
“I’ll be going now” she says. And with that she’s gone, leaving behind her a hand raised in a half wave that falls, empty, already missing her.
The early morning sun reflects off layers of white chiffon, sparkles reflecting around the room. Hair still damp, she shyly takes a brush and sits cross-legged on the floor, a blush tinting her cheeks. Chuckling, hands now worn down with age take the brush gently, a slight tremble rippling across muscles now less often used. The hands gently tease knots and the girl can now feel and understand all the messages she was blind to before. Within each brush stroke, “I believe in you”, with every notch of the braid, “I’m proud of you” and as the hands linger a moment after tying the last elastic band, “I love you”.