I braided my hair today
after I took it from the box
in which it had lain for
more than forty years after
I insisted on cutting it for
the first time just before
my senior year of high
school because I thought
a senior year required a
sacrifice or change, however
one might choose to think.
That day the scissors opened
wide to slice through the
auburn river that ran constant
down my back every day that I
could remember, and when they
snicked shut, there sat a stranger,
a woman, holding my girlhood
in a limp puddle on her lap.
At school my classmates only
blinked and wondered why,
and I said it seemed like the
time had come, as it did again
today when I opened the box
and braided the hank like I
was standing in front of myself,
then carried it outside, nestled
it in the crook of limb and tree
and left if for the birds.
© Dana Hughes 9.27.14