cutting
mama’s fine white hair
this windy spring day
our time together
slowly falling to the floor

My father is in rehab now and making very slow progress, but I know he is in good care so this at least eases my mind. My mother, however, seems failing every day; it is as if she is slipping from my hands just like the pieces of hair falling to the floor. Cutting her hair this morning seemed such an intimate gesture, such a simple task and I wanted so badly for it to be perfect. Ah, but nothing in life is perfect these days; hour by hour, I find myself letting it in, then letting it go, all these imperfections, all these big things and little things I have no control over--even my shabby, uneven pathetic attempt at a haircut. But as Mama says, perfect or not, "at least it's out of my eyes".