The colour of faded memories.

What is the color of faded memories?

Grayscale?

Muted pastels?

Sepia tones, mostly, I would say.

I have this mental image of my mom, combing her waist length hair, I say combing because she always used a wide toothed comb and never a brush. She then used to braid it in the prettiest way possible and come to bed. It was my favorite part of the day.

Amma, combing her hair in front of the dressing table, admiring her handiwork in the hazy mirror, one side of it covered with maroon and black bindis, which still had some life left in them to last for two or three trips to the store, or the distance it took to drop us off at school.

This night time routine was a constant, just before bedtime and I used to sit there, watching her and wondering when my hair would be long enough to braid. As a three year old, I used to clutch the end of this braid in my tiny fist while going to bed. It was my anchor. It held my world steady. It kept nightmares away. It brought about a better day.

Ending today with good memories so that I can brave yet another day. I am glad I have this wisp of memory to hold onto.