Jessica Smith
The First Sign of Gray
“Eeeeeeek,” I shout
In my highest pitched voice.
Was it from the stress
Or maybe the three boys?
No –
Definitely from the daughter.
To get rid of this thing,
I swear I’d slaughter.
I hop on Facebook
To examine my friends.
The worst thing I see
Is a couple of split ends.
I can’t help but
Fail to understand.
I grip the thing tightly
In the palm of my hand.
Ewww!
I can feel it linger.
Its dense sense of aging
Grasps to my finger.
It permeates
Throughout my whole body.
I immediately feel sixty and
As if I should join the Medicare lobby.
Oh my gosh!
I know people will stare.
It looks so out of place
Being the only one there.
Goodbye, American Eagle.
Hello, C.J. Banks.
You know what? I’m cutting it all off.
I don’t care what anyone thinks.
Now my husband is going to leave me, and
I’ll have to buy a few more cats.
Or I could get it dyed
Or buy some fashionable hats.
Who am I kidding?
I might as well accept my defeat,
Start looking for walkers and
Make people with manners give me their seats.
I’m going to be the old lady
Eating at Bob Evan’s alone,
Pinching young boys’ cheeks
Until my body turns to stone.
My chest is pulsing rapidly.
I can barely catch my breath.
I better call Homewood and get an oxygen tank
Before I’m forced to greet Death.
I feel my hunchback begin to form and
My bones start to decay.
I soon feel too old for Crochet Club and
“Ya know, back in my day. . .
We used to hike fifty miles uphill, in the snow.”
Oh no! I’m turning into my mother.
I closely examine it in the mirror again.
Oh, brother!
I could see this from a mile away!
Maybe even four.
Well, not me, because I’m an old woman,
Who doesn’t have 20/20 vision anymore.
Next come the arthritis, dementia, and cataracts.
I’ll have to buy Depends because
I won’t be able to control how my bladder acts.
THOMP! I hear someone
Come in the front door.
Creek, creek. He’s coming up the steps.
Creek. Only five more.
Is it menopause already?
I guess that has come and left.
Maybe it’s my social security check
Or at this rate, maybe Death.
“Honey, you here?”
My husband calls from the top step.
Here, I look like Betty White, and
He looks like Johnny Depp.
With no time to improvise,
He opens the bedroom door.
With no surprise, he points out my gray hair,
Only to find more. . .