Gray

"Dye them," said Mama. "Or pull them out

the moment they appear."

I sat on the cool marble sink,

short legs dangling from the edge,

watching as the silvery strands

drifted toward the drain.

My mother's face in the mirror,

all concentration:

Death to the invaders.

I asked aloud

what was wrong with

gray?

Her reply, automatic:

"One day, you'll understand--

you just can't let them see."

So I readied myself for the onslaught,

dreading the day

the gray would come for me.

But when I saw

the first wiry marauders

I didn't have the heart

for follicular homicide.

It seemed to me

that gray

was an autobiography

written on my body

for everyone to see.

Gray

was a village crier,

boasting in the square

that I had had adventures,

survived my battles,

and grown up strong.

I was a tree--

my wrinkled skin the bark--

and gray

my shining autumn leaves.

Remembering my mother,

plucking stories from her scalp,

discarding them like torn out pages,

I left the gray

to grow and spread.

"Come," I told the conquering silver army.

"Come show the world

that I have lived."