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


Art by Steve Johnson via Pexels