Long white hair

 Her long white hair seemed to bounce with her movements as she strolled down a dirt country road. On either side, wildflowers of many shapes and sizes bloomed, each beautiful in its own way. She picked some to take home, wanting to enjoy them before their brief beauty passed.

A tune played over in her mind, a song she had danced to many years ago at the homecoming dance with Billy, her middle school boyfriend. It was sad that they had lost touch, but she knew life gave you one memory at a time to hold onto.

Up ahead was the pond where she used to swim to escape the heat of summer and skate on a carpet of ice in winter, twirling round and round to the music in her head. She sat on a rock, just as she always did, looking over the land that had captured her heart as her youth faded away.

She watched the sun set, marveling at its wonder and beauty—a portrait any artist would love to capture. As she began her walk home, the moonlight guided her steps, and she listened to the crickets singing their songs while an owl announced its presence.

Upon climbing the four steps onto her porch, she sat down for a well-deserved rest, comforted by the symphony of the wild. She loved her simple life, away from the noises and chaos of people rushing to get somewhere, relishing the smell of wildflowers instead of bus fumes and fast food grease.

Feeling rested, she went inside, lit some candles, and burned a stick of incense as she finished the other half of a sandwich she had saved, washing it down with a glass of dandelion wine. 

As she brushed her long white hair, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Each stroke of the brush restored the shine and luster to the young girl who was looking back at her. Her eyes grew heavy as sleep came, and sometimes in the shadows of night, she felt the spirits of those she loved visiting her.

Morning arrived, bringing the sound of raindrops hitting the tin roof like the beat of a parade of drums, along with the fresh smells of the wet woods filling her cottage. She quickly gathered several pots and pans and set them outside to collect the purest water for her tea, saving the rest for a bath once the rain stopped. This was her life, a place once filled with people who, like her, cherished simple pleasures—like singing around a campfire or catching fireflies in the meadow while someone strummed a guitar to a song he had written.

They loved the land and each other until the city lured them away, and now they only visited when they found the time. The rain continued to fall as she undressed and walked down the now muddy country road, bathing herself in nature's shower, her long white hair bouncing behind her with every step.

Mike 2025