While the long grain is softening br in the water, gurgling br over a low stove flame, before br the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced br for breakfast, before the birds, br my mother glides an ivory comb br through her hair, heavy br and black as calligrapher's ink. br br She sits at the foot of the bed. br My father watches, listens for br the music of comb br against hair. br br My mother combs, br pulls her hair back br tight, rolls it br around two fingers, pins it br in a bun to the back of her head. br For half a hundred years she has done this. br My father likes to see it like this. br He says it is kempt. br br But I know br it is because of the way br my mother's hair falls br when he pulls the pins out. br Easily, like the curtains br when they untie them in the evening.