We sometimes cry during
the first haircut. Maybe it's
the scissors. Or maybe it's
not knowing why we're
being asked to give up
this part of ourselves
that's the most alive.
Your hair was so white
it was barely there—
a tiny white fog
and then it wasn't there
but then it was curly.
Years later, we got little plants
for everyone for Christmas
because we were broke.
They're all dead now—
the plants, I mean.
Except Grandma's.
I saw it still on her sill
in that photo you sent
to me on the phone.
It's like a race that doesn't
end when we win.