My mother’s hand was cool as she pressed it against my aching bottom. She said, “Your bum is hot, and it’s very red, but I don’t see any bruises. You’ll be sore tonight, but you should be fine tomorrow. Pull up your pants and sit on the bed.” She then crossed to her dresser and picked up a hairbrush. She returned to the bed, sat next to me, and handed me the brush. Then she said, “Do you know where I got this brush?” I knew. The brush had belonged to Nanna, her mother. Nanna had brought the brush across the ocean with her from Ireland, and it was one of her prize possessions. The dark hard wood was laced with silver filigree, and the bristles were very soft.
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