So, I wrote this after imagining being widowed – at least my morbid imagination is fuel for creativity…
‘I cut my hair. You’d hate it.
But “you’re” not “you” and you’re not here,
so why should I care-
now, it’s only hair.
A week ago, it was a *symbol* of devotion-an outward sign of my inward love;
running down my back- eagerly seeking the stroke of husband’s hands.
Now, it’s just wire, thread, wool, shorn, cut-off and dead on the hairdresser’s floor-
the *sign* switched off,
the Love spilled out with
no hands to catch it.
How suddenly death devalues everything-
it steals meaning from that which one didn’t even consider to get valued in the ‘before’.
And now is only the grey ‘after’-
Filled to bursting with the heaviness of nothingness,
and deafened by the clanging sound of memories and things raped of value:
Scraping shells which previously where hands Husband caressed;
No Man’s Land where previously lay Husband’s head.
And now, a bare neck,
previously draped with a wife’s thick locks to please her Love.
But you cannot please the dead.
So what was, in the ‘before’ an offering,
is now only hair-
And without your smile, your gaze your stroke.
I do not care.’
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