100 Strokes

At the end of the day With the chores all done, The children cleaned And put to bed. My mother sat and brushed her hair. 100 strokes of each dark strand. 'til each renewed, the brush laid down. Her hair glowed and was her crown. Her hands were worn and each did bare The many jobs her hands performed. From kneading bread, to kneeling down. Clasped together, a prayer was said. Soothing tears by holding hearts. Scrubbing pots, stirring bowls. Small hands to hold when comfort's needed. Each line and worn out spot, each broken nail. All told a story, all well earned and still, Every night when the lights grew dim. Day is gone, her hands had one last job to do. She'll sit and brush her long, dark hair. 100 times, 100 strokes. Over the days and months gone by, Not a sound is heard but the brush pulled down. Each strand is placed upon her head, Each finds its place within her crown. I find peace and love and know, That each person here within my home, Has their place within these walls. Has a place within my mother's heart, Just like every piece of hair she brushes. At the end of the day, as she sits and brushes each strand of hair, 100 strokes, 100 times.