She straightens her hair. Her hands guide the flattening iron as its jaws clench on locks of wavy hair. Snippets of steam rise before she draws the iron down and then grasps another strand.
There must be some occasion. But it’s too early for our newphew’s wedding.
Lightening dances across thunderheads that encroach the sky. The distant rumble follows their illumination. I ignore it, engrossed with watching her transformation.
Almost forgetting how she mourns. The dirth of referrals that is her practice’s life’s blood. Her friends left behind on the west shore of the Hudson. The house we called home for nineteen years.
She finishes. Her auburn-highlighed brown hair rests below her shoulder. She smiles, glances at the thigh-high, 8-inch platform heeled boots I bought her.
“To be pretty for you I have dropped two seeds of turnsole in the dark of both eyes.”
We’re writing Prosery: Through the eyes of Isabel Duarte Gray over at dVerse today.
The Pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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