Fresh Ginger at the Dressing Table
My grandmother kept a small knob of ginger beside the soap dish. After washing her hair, she cut a fresh face on it at the bathroom sink and leaned toward the mirror while I stood behind her.
The ginger beside the comb
The bathroom shelf held a toothbrush glass, a comb, plain soap, and the ginger wrapped in a scrap of plastic. It was smaller than the roots in the kitchen basket. My grandmother kept it there so it would not be cooked by mistake.
After washing her hair, she wiped the mirror with the corner of a towel and sliced away the dry surface. The fresh cut left a pale mark along her hairline. She moved it in short strokes, then parted her hair with the comb and bent closer to the glass.
The place she could not see
She handed the ginger to me for the back of her head. I stood on my toes while she lowered her chin over the sink. She guided my hand to the nape and told me when to stop. Raw ginger and damp hair filled the small room with the same sharp smell that came from the dinner board.
Rice-water rinsing and soap-pod liquid belonged to the older wash shelf she remembered from other houses. A warm towel came last, folded over her eyes while the comb and ginger dried beside the basin.
Sunday things put away
My grandmother rinsed the knife, wrapped the ginger again, and slid it behind the soap dish. She cleaned the loose hair from the comb before leaving the bathroom.
I still picture the shelf in that order: glass, comb, ginger, folded cloth. Nothing on it had a label.