I made her a vow that I always would, so I join two fresh clusters in my clumsy and careful hands as I cradle her slumbering nape. I am submerged in the calculus of it all, as though concentration is where I took my misstep. As though I am not three decades behind in my practice. As though it is just about finding the pattern (too late). I’m too late, I think, or maybe it’s something else: his hands never knew how to fix my sister’s hair. I tend each thick, onyx strand like I’m mending her favorite blanket, as though my calloused digits might coax and shape anything into an ordered grace. I layer another braid into the tidy maze crowning her scalp. I can feel, with each pull and twist, the newly assembled crib watching.