Coronet It was perhaps the longest drive of my life. 2 hours of the way 'back home'. I drove along in silence. No radio. No CD thumping out that old time rock and roll. No companion to chat the time away. Just me and the incessant Oklahoma wind whistling through the space where the glass in the door didn't quite meet the frame. Short vignettes play in my head. Snippets of my youth set to the music of the whining tones of the wind through the door. It sounds like the sounds of mourning. Like a low moan or a muffled sob. Like tears through a clenched fist. Through the hollows and byways of a road I had driven many times. Happier times. Going home times. Each turn with it's own story. Each landmark with a tale to tell. I count them all. Finally, I reach my destination. Walking to the door, I pull on my best suit jacket, adjust my tie, straighten my collar. Wipe away the smudge from my cheek. She wouldn't have been happy if I'd shown up disheveled or with my clothes unpressed or with bags under my eyes. No, she would've wanted me to walk in square shouldered, with my hand in a firm handshake with the one who greeted me and escorted me inside, with my head up, and my manner courteous and polite. The man escorts me to a small room off to the side. The 'viewing room". A white book lies on a stand with the names of those who have been here before me. There a only a few, including my sister and various other family and friends. There is a smudge on the page where salt and water and ink met, forever staining the page, a memento of grief, or perhaps shame, who knows? She lay there and for the life of me, she looked just like she did when she was that vibrant, busy little woman that raised me, instead of the tired, battle worn skeleton that I had watched draw last breath. She had fought a courageous fight. The only person I ever knew who defeated cancer three times. Only to lose when the demons returned for a fourth go-round. Even she couldn't fight that hard, or that long. Even she, who could conquer all threats, real or imagined, had a threshold of pain. There were flowers. And cards. Sympathy. Gifts. What do you give to one who has crossed over? What token do you leave? What does one sacrifice for one who sacrificed so much? I ponder this question as I stand there, almost laughing at the irony of such gifts. Why was she not gifted so while she was still with us? Then the irony and shame shift to myself. She had grown much of her hair back. The chemotherapy had robbed her the last time of her hair. The beautician had done a nice job, she would've approved. I was blessed with her hair. Unruly, wavy hair, that curled the 'wrong way'. Two crowns. She always remarked on this when she would cut my hair as a child. With shears in hand, first swipe right down the middle of the head, leaving the hair in bristles standing straight up. Like a porcupine. Couldn't cut it any other way, boy, you got a double crown. And then she'd smile. She had little single strands of auburn in her hair, a recessant trait from her great great grandma Bean. Lydia was her name. Half-Cherokee, Half-Irish, with auburn hair. Which fell to a few of her descendants. When the light is just right, I can see those single strands of auburn in my own locks. Lydia Bean. That was her name. I smile at the rememberance of this, and of the continuance of great great great grandma Bean. Double crowned. Everything was as she had directed. She had all her final wishes fulfilled. The right dress, her pearls, the right preacher, the favorite hymns. Her resting place. I stand there and wonder, what to give? What should she have for her hard work and her diligence, her sacrifice, her life? How to honor her? What crown? I reach into my pocket and pull out my old Case pocket knife. Dad's old knife. I reach back to the knot at the base of my neck. My hair hangs down, past my shoulder blades. The single strands of auburn here and there. I take the blade across below the knot and without regret, I draw the blade through the coarse, curls-the-wrong-way pony tail, and then stand there with my gift. I lay the plaited bundle alongside her, and smooth the tresses out, where the hair curls the wrong way, and pat it so it lays down, which it won't do, and I laugh at the memory of her ironing my hair through a wet towel to smooth it out when I had finally been allowed let my hair grow long. A fitting gift. For the next few weeks there were many who would ask as to why I had cut my hair. But there were others who didn't have to ask. They knew without having to ask. They knew of the loss of my Mother and never remarked on my newly shorn hair. I gave her my hair. Double-crowned.

"Coronet" © Wauhilau
Wed, Jan 16, 2008, 10:12pm (EST-1)







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