Criss, cross, criss, cross.
My grandmother and I sit next to each
other with foundation in one
hand, a brush in the other.
We blend.
Grandma’s age spots lighten as
my white spots darken, unfolding
the magic of disappearance.
One glove, second glove.
My grandmother and I face each
other with dye in one
hand, an applicator in the other.
My white hair turns black.
Sometimes orange. But it’s okay.
We dance and we sing and we hide
under our new head of new hair.
My grandmother says Dear, you must know,
just as my age spots are flowers
of the afterlife, your white
spots are flowers of hope.
My grandmother has now joined these flowers she spoke of.
I blend,
I brush, I dye, alone.
Sometimes my hair turns orange, alone.
I hide under my new head of new hair,
I cover up my flowers of hope, I have no hope
that she will return.
