Hair couldn’t make you more beautiful
than you already are.
I wish I could help you see that.
Something eats away at all of us,
and unfortunately yours has a name,
and it begins with a c,
but I can’t say it, can’t even write it
with you in mind
because when I think of you
I see wholeness, and aliveness,
I remember your smile,
a smile I couldn’t believe even existed –
but there it was,
and it was everything I believe to be good about life –
all tucked away in your face.
I went home and cried afterwards,
just held my knees to my chest and cried,
and thought about how messed up it was
that I was the crying one,
and you the smiling one.
The only word I could draw to mind
when I looked back to that moment at
the hairdressers, you with a bald head,
me with a full one,
I hated myself for the raw pain on your face
as each snip of my hair
fluttered to the floor.
I hated myself for having
what you didn’t.
But now I know
you aren’t the one lacking something.
and you gave me some of it,
but you’ll take the rest with you
on your trip to a grand Somewhere.
I remember hearing a stranger whisper
as you walked out the door,
leaving a silent room in your wake,
“That one’s got a fire in her eyes.”
She does, I say.