Gray Roots
I never thought I’d ever feel joy again
When she read the line, “My darling beloved husband was murdered on a perfect summer’s day, and I never thought I’d ever feel joy again,” I wondered, did her snowcapped head turn white in an instant, on that very day? She had shoulder-length curly white hair. Was it once long and straight? Did strands spring in shock, recoiling at the news?
My mind drifted. For how long — how many times did she look at a reflection of an avalanche-faced stranger staring back into the broken glass before she began to recognize the image not as a stranger but as a fellow traveler? A companion. Maybe she even saw echoes of herself in the mirror, as if finding a lost photo from a former life, the life that ended on a perfect summer’s day.
I thought back to my own journey and the last time I was in West Seattle. I wasn’t lost, just wandering down California Ave., when I found myself in a stylist’s chair. The sign had read, “Walk-Ins Welcome.” Usually, I was mistrustful of signs, but I had an overwhelming urge to enter — to encounter someone who would take me in and care for me. So, in a moment of weakness, feeling susceptible and gullible, I walked in.
To my surprise, the sign was true to its word. I was immediately welcomed and seated in a chrome chair lined with onyx vinyl. With matador mastery, a…
