My heart beating like triplets on an over
tightened snare drum I feared nicking her
pale, virgin skin never having seen
the light of day since her birth and
maybe not even then, realizing I didn’t
know if she had been born with hair.
Red gold in the morning sun, her hair
a symbol, a flag of independence,
of uniqueness, standing out in a crowd
saying we’re taking over the world,
one redhead at a time!
The bandana’s she wore, flashing neon
“I have cancer” signs signaled her doom
in easy to read letters like a flagman
on a ship telling you how to act
in her presence, though she didn’t want
you to follow those directions.
Knowing her intimately was a goal since
first meeting and even after her death
I still realize I don’t know if
she had been born with hair.