When Lavender was little she would be running around the house grabbing all your things,saying that they would help her be more beautiful like you. You'd run after her and catch the brush in her right hand,sitting her on your knees,and the days would fly by repeating the rite of brushing her long hair,growing year by year. And you'd have so much fun,that your husband ended up joining you. She was your only child,you had no reason to not spoil your little girl. That's why you felt that pang in your heart last christmas,when you found her crying in her room about how vein she had been,and how her magazines wouldn't have helped them win the war. You spotted bruises here and there,and realized there was nothing you could do,but hold her tightly to your chest,remembering sadly the times where there was no war. You sent her back thinking that nonetheless anything she would've been fine,if she could've stayed out of trouble,while you could stay put. She promised,with a tight smile that she would've been fine,and since she had never been a liar you believed her. She was no child anymore,she was to take her choices by herself. She chose last night too,and chose courage. There was more to your Lavender,meeting the eyes of people. She was your beautiful doll,not just on the outside,not just because nature had granted her the chance to be healthy,good looking,or what else,but because she had the most beautiful things inside of herself. If she believed into something,she would put her heart into it,if she thought something was worth fighting for,she would fight,like she had. If she wanted to say something she would say it out loud,she wasn't just a pretty doll. You were given a bed in the hospital wing,and now you're here,with your brush out ready to repeat your rite. It was rite when she was little,when she would leave for school every year,and for every change in general. It'll be a rite again,now that you've been granted one last chance,to accompany her through something. Through a passage that matters. But you find yourself wishing she could just open her eyes,and grab the brush from your hand,like when she was a kid,do her hair and then yours,and talk excitedly to you about things which mostly shouldn't matter to any of the two,but won't let you think about what life has become. The scars don't frighten you,in your eyes she keeps being beautiful,the beautiful person who could read deep inside of you. Scars are a reminder of the fighter she was,as she was more than her cuts,although you wish you could wipe away the blood that's still in her hair,which won't grow anymore as a testament to her growing up. She will never have all she had wished for. Life doesn't matter to you anymore,if it weren't for the soft weight on your back you'd already be gone,because what's life like if you can't have her by your side?He'll be grabbing the brush you so much love in a minute,telling you you're all supposed to get ready. What for?You're not gonna be doing your hair,or have the chance to choose a particular dress as if you're taking part in a party where your daughter is in it. There's no more light to find in your world.
You come home to an empty house,holding a lock of hair in your hand,the way you did on the day she was born and set it in the album you filled out on her first years of life and your brush it every year,losing it everyday more,and whenever you can't hold it he comes by your side and repeats the rite and sometimes if you dare closing your eyes,you can imagine she is the one brushing your hair,with her soft hands,and her contagious laughter,and her bright shining locks,bright as the person she was.