My hair is long, curly, and thick.
I grab a curl, a lock, and
Twirl it around my finger.
There are many strands.
I feel its weight and density.
I wrap it around my finger a few times.
I pull it back a bit—to get a
Better look at the individual
Strands wrapped around
My finger—
“A part of me,” I think.
I pull the hair toward me,
And I sniff:
Residual Chanel #5 lingers,
It’s the end of the day.
The brown, black, red mingle
Twisted on my finger.
This hair has grown
On my head since the
Beginning. From the moment
I could grow hair.
The hair I touch, though trimmed
And cut over all these years,
Is part of the same hair
That was present when I was born;
One continuous stream of me.
The strands wrapped around
My finger…
Cause me pause.
I think for a moment.
I remember. I feel. I cry.
And the tears fall from my
Pressed lids
Passing through my eyelashes
Onto my cheeks—
The wet washes through
The light powder I just applied,
Dragging along the mascara,
Leaving a trace of black behind.
(I’d say there’s a “tear’s trace”
But that colloquialism is taxed.)
Reflexively, I pull my
My hand toward the rolling tear.
And it’s caught–
As was every tear
Prior to that one
In and by the strands of my hair
Twirled around my finger.
Every tear over these
Decades. Caught.
Caught and comforted
In the bed of my spindled hairs
Wrapped around my finger.
The individual strands of hair
Intertwined around my finger
Hold the turmoil and sorrow of
All the decades past.
The tears that have been
Shed, caught and absorbed
In the strands of my hair.
Each strand holds a key to
My life; each strand holds a
Secret worth keeping.
All of the strands intertwined
Together create a rich yet
Shallow resting ground for
The Pain and sorrow
That I’ve seen and known.
This hair, this beautiful
Hair has become the final
Resting place for so much
Sadness. Yet, all these strands
Have combined to form my
Story: the Good, Bad, and the Ugly.
My hair is long, curly, and thick.
There are many strands.
I grab a curl, a lock, and
Twirl it around my finger.