Your hair

Short seemed so fitting—
Maybe it was easier to wrap my head around us if you looked less like a girl,
less controversial.
But you liked the length—wind blowing through it,
pulled back in a ponytail.
So it grew. Slowly, at first,
as we began something altogether new to me.
By the time we attended our first dance,
you in a tie and I in a dress,
I had to brush your bangs away to see the glitter of your eyes.
I can still see the moonlight of our slow dance outside shimmering in the strands.
It had gotten longer still by the day you graduated college.
My pride was radiating; your success is still clear at the roots of your hair.
You colored it darker, desperate for a change,
and as if your hair dictated the atmosphere, the world followed.
Gay marriage was legalized in California, and DOMA was repealed.
We celebrated silently, the joy in our hearts bursting with little restraint,
like the split ends at the bottom of your lengthy strands.
I’ve grown to love your hair, long and changing as it is.
And within it, I’ve found the memories of our journey—
as if each of the thousands of strands is one moment in the lifetime of us.
From one picture to the next your hair is different,
reminding me that change is a necessity of life.
But with all the changes, our love has been steady.
And so it will be, through the thinning and the graying,
and until the day when the vibrant silver holds all there is to hold.
A story of our lives, my heart and yours, there on your head.

Your hair

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