My father passed away 21 days before Christmas. 18 of those days were spent at my Mothers house. Weird, I still want to say my folks’ house; but that implies Pop is still with us.
Christmas was mostly an afterthought. We were so busy settling his affairs that I felt I had no time to grieve much less celebrate a holiday. I was mostly numb until Christmas morning, just before my sister and nephew arrived. I was in the master bathroom, where everything remained exactly as Pop had left it. There, I saw his black hairbrush—a Christmas gift from my sister the previous year.
It was to replace the brush he purchased over 60 years ago, just before his wedding. That original brush was the type used by barbers: aluminum, natural bristles, and a vented back. I remember using it as a boy to wet down morning cowlicks before school. But decades of use along with the copious amounts of water and Consort hairspray for men had eventually worn the bristles down to nubs.
When Pop received the new brush last year, he inspected it and unceremoniously tossed the relic in the trash. I had to stop myself from fishing it out and taking it home. I don't regret leaving it, but I’m struck by the irony that Pop used one brush for 60 years, yet didn't even get a full year out of the imposter. It's strange to think that something like a hairbrush could bring me to tears.