I Had Decided Against Telling Saying Her Hair Is Beautiful

Tight corkscrews of shaved silver.

Twisted gray clay.

Thick cloud of black wool.

A mottled, muddled melange.

I had wanted to tell her

how it suits her round face

how it makes me happy

how it shouts she is here.

When my sandwich is ready,

she hands it across the counter.

I change my mind. I tell her.

I tell her because it’s true.

I tell her because

I want to make her happy.

Tell her because

I want her to go home,

be enfolded in her lover’s arms,

and when asked how her day was,

I want her to say my hair was beautiful.

I think I am giving her a gift,

a small pleasure. Some unexpected joy

when minimum wage doesn’t offer too much of that.

She smiles.

I think her smile is the gift

I will go home with,

the one I will tell my children

at the dinner table

when we say how our day was.

I will tell them how

I made a stranger smile.

I will tell them how

I made a stranger

with beautiful hair

smile.

She responds:

It’s how it grew.

My face puzzles.

After the chemo.

And the radiation.

She shrugs.

It’s how it grew back.

When I ask her if she likes it,

her wider smile blesses us both.

Oh, yes.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston