My Grandmother's Hair
I no longer remember what age I realized
My looks stood out in my family.
While we all had the same pale skin of Scandinavia,
And facial landscapes that echoed,
Dad had dark tresses, almost inky black.
Mom and my brothers had mid-brown locks.
All four saw the world through matching eyes,
Warm pools of liquid dark brown.
My hair was white blond, as rare as can be.
Like a Viking far from their homeland.
In old black and white high school photos,
Before people bleached their hair en masse,
My hair and skin glowed brightly
As if lit by a spotlight.
My eyes were a mystery all their own.
Not a matching brown, a mysterious blue.
A hue alien in our house.
Only featured in one single person - me.
Deep, dark, almost navy.
The color was hard to pin down.
The flash of a camera lit them up.
Then their blueness appeared like magic,
Only to quickly disappear when the lights dimmed.
Often I stared into the mirror and pondered.
I already felt like I didn't fit into this world.
My uniqueness simply added fuel to the fire.
And in true child-like fashion I conjured up
Dreams of waking up magically altered to match,
As well as thoughts of a hidden adoption.
One sunny day,
Like a lightening bolt out of the blue,
The mist parted and clarity came.
Unexcepted, surprising, magical.
We were visiting the family farm,
Grandpa had left us, but grandma still here.
A strong, vibrant, farm woman.
My parents were relaxing,
My brothers were off exploring.
As usual I was bored.
I strolled into her bedroom
Not realizing was waiting inside,
And instantly froze, struck dumb.
Standing motionless, my eyes explored.
It all made sense now.
The blonde, the blue, the differences.
My grandmothers hair, usually coiled on her head,
Was instead cascading down her back,
She smiled at me as she rhythmically combed it.
The top half was the color I knew - white as snow.
BUT, the bottom half faded into blonde. My blonde.
Then looked into her eyes stunned to discover
Dark navy blue orbs that mirrored my own.
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