I'm going to get my hair dyed blonde
This isn't my color, she said, it was a mistake
What color would you call this? she asks,
pulling tinted ends and grey roots
Strawberry blonde, I say
This isn't my color
Dad likes it blonde
Your roots are grey too
we could get our hair colored together
He was too young to die
He had so much more living to do
When I get my hair done
You can get yours dyed blonde too
My hair hasn't been blonde since I was a kid, I smile
I don't want him to be dead, she says
When you get to heaven, I say
he will be there to meet you
first in line
I hope so, she sighs
He comes every night, you know
He sits on the couch just like always
How can he be dead?
He doesn't say much, but
You should come the next time he is here
He always thought a lot of you
When we both are blondes again
I'll take you out to dinner
Ha! I exclaim, I love that – "when we both are blondes again"
It sounds like the title of a story or a poem
Yes! Write it down, she says, with a sparkle I thought long-lost
When we both are blondes again
We can go to New York City and sing
"If we can make it there …" I start out
Yes, she laughs through tears, we can sing that song
"We'll make it anywhere …"
We'll bring Dad
He would like that
When we both are blondes again
*Inspired by a conversation with my widowed mother, who has dementia.
Lyrics quoted loosely from New York, New York, by Fred Ebb.
Photo, free download, by Charles Parker from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/glowing-lights-of-evening-city-with-futuristic-skyscrapers-5847375/
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