Cheryl Snell
Photo: pixle
I’m trimming my sister’s hair
when Mother makes for the scissors.
I’m the one, she begins. Her words
sputter to a halt as I close the gaping blades.
She stands, dwarfed in the kitchen
she once ruled, and I see her as she was,
bending low over the children’s curls,
her movements precise and quick.
I am the scissors cutting her
from her old life now, and even as
she opens me to loss, I begin
to close her.
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