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Purple Hair

She wanted purple hair.

No more this dull, iron gray that made her skin look worn and tired,

Her eyes sunk deep under hooded lids.

The dark swirling chocolate of her pupils caught the electricity in the sky.

She heard the storm first, the thunder rolling and crashing,

Her dishes and glasses vibrating with the violence.

She walked out, past her threshold, her stooped figure  moving slowly,

leaving behind the gray cat tucked away in the closet, shaking.

She looked up as a bolt of yellow and white lightening blazed over her head

Splitting the sunset, the roses and pinks, the purples.

She wanted purple hair.

Another bolt flashed by her, so close her hair stood on end, like pins to a magnet.

She wanted purple hair.

She found the old pole, where she had hung the American flag while her husband was at war and then her son was at war.

She heard the crackle, the cackling laugh of the lightening as it came toward her.

She grabbed the pole and held on tight.