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Creative Writing

The Color of Life

White hairs began to appear

At just eight years old.

My aunt, adorned with fiery red curls

Gasped as she spotted the strand

That stuck out against the deep

Soil brown hair that I had

Always had my entire life.

“You’re getting old!” She laughed,

Though cackle would’ve better

Suited it – that’s what Dad always said.

I never feared growing old until

That day, because not it was too 

Close for comfort. I cried, hurling myself

Into the burnt tan couch in the living room,

Yelling “I’m going to die!”

That is all it meant to me to grow-up: 

To have my own life, to raise others,

To grow old, to die.

That’s all life was. And I hadn’t even lived

The first part yet. 

The white hair was the first sign that I realized

My Nana was old – lying in a hospital bed and 

Looking up at my family, saying goodbye.

It was the color of Granny Charlene’s skin when we moved 

Away and she died the next spring. 

But it was also the color of snow, fallen fresh from the

Graying skies. It was the color of the wedding dress

My Aunt wore when she met the love of her life, 

Eighteen years after the first wedding.

White wasn’t an evil color. 

Life was.

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