by Hope Joseph
October morning, I dyed my baby’s hair back to black, like the color of my skin. She smile holding the mirror inches from her face. At 58 her hair hangs like strands of snow, my smooth
skin brushing her fairly wrinkled face like the cool breeze of a long forgotten spring. A long forgotten shoot scourged by the wide fire of time. I can hear the grey hairs protest against the
black tyrant slithering over their length. Is it sundown already? October ’60s my baby untouched by the sun dream underneath the bare trees, smooth like silk, eyes, the flame of youth. October
mid ’90s my baby held me up in mid air like an offering to the God of autumn, my fragile body glittering like a living diamond. My baby now old, survived war, disease, and all the
savagery against womanhood. October morning, I dyed my baby’s hair back to the beginning. She holds the mirror inches from her face and said good my boy. Smiling with all the remaining
fire in her
bones.
Art by Steve Johnson via Pexels
