When I was born
she wore her hair short
in a pixie-like look:
soft, smooth hair.
Once the mid 80s hit,
I noticed her hair
had grown shaggy,
sides hanging back
in hairsprayed flyaways.
As I grew into
my adult shoes,
and the more time she spent
outside in the garden –
first the alleyside one,
then the huge garden
as big as a house –
her brown hair turned
blonde, sun-
scorched, dry
brittle, and, finally,
when the cancer
tapped her on the head,
all the straw pieces
fell out and I remember
when I was 16, digging
beneath her shaggy hair,
finding those little strands
of silk and fragility
still hugging her neck.
It’s that that I mourn,
the way I fingered
her hair as a baby would,
twisting and twirling,
in wonder.

01/05/2007

Posted on 01/05/2007
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