She runs her hands through her hair—

The thick mass shakes in terror, 

Releases great thick drops of water—

It’s a ceremonial washing,

A processional release.

In just a day’s time

Her hair will be gone,

Sacrificed to the lust of cancer.

The trees outside are still strong,

Donning their glistening diadems of

Passionate oranges,




They too will let go of their manes;

{It’s okay, they don’t have a choice either.)

And as the world

Loses its beauty for a season,

Cracking apart

One crinkly leaf at a time,

So will my mother.

She may feel gnarled and shriveled

And in hibernation.

The winter may chill all of our hearts;

The ice may threaten to strangle

All of our hope.

Our tears may harden

Into unfeeling icicles,

Frosted over by pride.






The flowers will peek their heads out;

The splendid southern greens,

Like Noah’s dove,

Will find the world a safe place

In which to reside.

Mom, having come through the winter,

Will find her soul

Restored through the 

Death of the leaves;

Requiem of the winter;

Resurrection of the spring.

Her hair will grow in tufts again

And we will celebrate the warmth

And we will be okay.

Published by Amanda Brown

INFP who names inanimate objects, loves to laugh, and is a proud old soul. You can often find her planning out her next crazy project, hugging books, or telling stories about her day that *may* be a little exaggerated.

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