"Exchange of Words"
She says, "You are beautiful." It is the first Thursday in May. It is not the first time I've heard that word. Belief is a shy African Grey flying at a great distance. Seeing the same psychiatrist is our only connection. It should end there, yet I'm compelled to pursue her. She unlocks her car while I shout over the blare of traffic, "Your hair is lovely. Who cuts it?" She acknowledges the compliment, cautiously closes the gap between us.
She skitters near enough to confide the hair is a wig. "He's helping me through it," she says with a flinch toward the office. "The cancer." It might be the first time she has spoken the word aloud in public. Now she is bald.
I could request her name. I could take her hand. I could embrace her. Instead, I ask if I might touch the wig. She lowers her chin, tilts toward me like a trusting lorikeet. I hold a silken strand between thumb and forefinger, then slide my hand down until I nestle her cheek. She raises her eyes. "Beautiful," she says again. For the first time, I feel it perch in the curve of my palm.
© 2005 M
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