This morning, I’m reminded of a morning ritual Corey and I had when he was very young.
He would take his bath in the evenings. So when he woke up in the morning, his hair would be sticking up all over. So I would take him in the bath room and spray his hair with a little water and come it down. We made up a poem and we’d say it together as I combed his hair:
Chicken head, oh chicken head…
Do you have chickens living in your bed?
Cause too get your hair to grow higher and higher,
You had to comb it with a chicken wire.
That poem was ours.
Those are the moments that I mourn. Hearing him giggle at our inside jokes.