by Julia Canzoneri
When my grandmother was a little girl,
she wore her long, straight hair in two plaited pigtails down her back.
And when she was in the third grade,
The little boy in the seat behind her
Would grab one braid,
Yank it,
And dip the end in the inkwell at the corner of his desk.
My grandfather’s childish antics would someday become his romantic legacy.
My grandpa’s genes are strong,
For now I,
Despite having graduated the third grade
And having no inkwell at my disposal,
Have inherited this practice of pulling pigtails.
When my stomach churns and roils with the burn of affection,
I reach out and yank on metaphorical locks of hair that swing in front of me.
Instead of wondering how it would feel to twist my fingers through those of another,
I use my fingers to poke and prod.
I tease, cajole, needle, and nudge,
Always pushing
A sweet boy towards a hopeful precipice over which I am already dangling.
My shoulders shake with delight as I call out biting words,
Sweet sentiments under the guise of coy insults.
I pull your pigtails,
I push you off swings,
Knock your ice cream cone out of your hand,
Scribble slashed lines and squiggles of nonsense in the margins of your notebook.
I bait and I goad
And I hope
You can understand
That each and every time I give your pigtails
A particularly nasty and purposeful yank,
I am living out my grandfather’s romantic legacy
In the catch of my fingertips.
