To the Salon Lady

I let you leave my hair curly, because it seemed to make you happy:
the way you scrunched and ruffled and smiled at me in the mirror
and said "You're lucky to have curls."
I paused at the door after giving you my sympathies
and gave you one last smile
because I knew the moment the door closed behind me
the silence of the room would envelop you
and you would be forced to absorb the grief that the morning had brought you:
the loss of your own father.
I didn't tell you about mine because you were holding yourself together so well
and I didn't want to have to explain all that comes next,
but I could feel it in the air-
all the formalities come first, the arrangements, plans, condolences, too many flowers,
cards that say all the sappy things that people don't know how to say themselves.
People will come by and offer help
and food
and ask if there's anything else they can do; there probably won't be.
And then it will stop.

Because sympathy has an expiration date,
and grief does not.
And you'll again be sitting in your shop
staring out the window and watching the world go by
and something or someone will remind you of him
but you'll brush the tears away to answer the phone and greet another customer
and smile like you don't still hurt.
Days, months and years will go by.
You'll move on with your life
but always with a blanket of grief draped over your shoulders
that no one else can see.