Her Hair

It looked beautiful, just as it had when she’d last seen her. Her hair lay in soft waves, framing her pale face. It was mom hair, with no elastics or frills added, and had always set off her big eyes.

Those eyes were locked sightlessly on the ceiling, her pale skin was eerily blue, and her warm loving arms were cold. But her hair was perfect, vibrant, alive.

She wanted to touch her and feel her momness, to hug her and to tease her about her overuse of hot rollers. Instead, she numbly stared and held herself and died inside.