Returning Home to Quiet Where Hair Used to Be
Weeks later, Mom came home again. She moved slower, gentler, as if the world’s volume had been turned down. When she removed her scarf to change, I stopped mid-step. Her head was completely bare—no curls, no strands catching the light. It wasn’t ugly; it was strange, like seeing your favorite mountain after a wildfire. I asked where her hair had gone. She smiled, touched my cheek, and said she’d cut it because she’d been “too warm.”
I told her I liked it, then added, with a child’s full honesty, “Now you look like Dad.” We laughed together. I didn’t yet know the word “chemotherapy.” I didn’t know medicine could be brave enough to look like losing.
