Criss, cross, criss, cross. 
My grandmother and I sit next to each 
other with foundation in one 
hand, a brush in the other. 
We blend. 
Grandma’s age spots lighten as 
my white spots darken, unfolding 
the magic of disappearance.

One glove, second glove. 
My grandmother and I face each 
other with dye in one 
hand, an applicator in the other. 
My white hair turns black. 
Sometimes orange. But it’s okay. 
We dance and we sing and we hide
under our new head of new hair. 

My grandmother says Dear, you must know, 
just as my age spots are flowers 
of the afterlife, your white 
spots are flowers of hope. 

My grandmother has now joined these flowers she spoke of.
I blend, 
I brush, I dye, alone. 
Sometimes my hair turns orange, alone. 
I hide under my new head of new hair,
I cover up my flowers of hope, I have no hope 
that she will return.