The sounds of the scissors cutting
Are rhythmic.
Steady, Second nature, speedy.
Not a strand of white hair
Given mercy.
They're more daring now,
Sprouting up like weeds.
Nothing can stop them.
This is when I am cutting Father's white hair.
It's been a ritual for the past few years.
Every week, 11 am on Sunday morning,
we'll sit outside on the balcony
His hair illuminating the sun rays.
He used to count the number of strands
I would cut.
But he stopped when it got too much.
He used to stop only when he felt
His hair looked younger, void of the grey,
But now he stops, defeated
By something that's imminent.
He used to hold up small pocket mirror,
Eyeing my moves like an eagle (heaven forbid
If I cut a black one),
Giving directions, "that strand", "see that?", "that small one",
But now he stays silent.
Snip snip snip,
Tick tick tick.
In the past, I would cut fifty strands in ten minutes.
Now I cut more than a hundred in one.
It's not long before Father says,
"There's no need to cut my hair."
Now it's only a game of waiting -
Waiting for the sun to set,
Where his hair will turn black
When the night comes.
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
Mind Over Matter - What I Never Said
कविताHere's a collection Of prose and (try-hard) poetry That contains all the things I never said. I hope the wind, the internet, or whatever Will carry my words to you Someday. (SLOW AND RANDOM UPDATES) - copyright ChristineLLY 2018
