Super Cuts, Six Months After My Daughter’s Death
The stylist snip snips my hair, shorter
and shorter. As she works, we talk.
You have children, she asks. Yes,
I answer. Do you? Oh, I have two girls.
How about you? Three, I say, my voice
tight, clipped as the gray strands covering
the floor. My daughter’s hair was long
and red, until it was blonde. She loved
the sun. A little less on the sides, please.
Why didn’t I say I have two children, sons,
and that would have been that. Except that
will never be that. I will always have three
children. Do they live here, she asks.
The sons do. My daughter lives nowhere
and everywhere. It’s good, she says, you
have a girl, too. Yes, I answer, it is good.