Windswept

BY BETSY BANKS

Years before chemo

forced us to crop my sister’s hair,

we’d sit small together

in the backseat,

windows rolled down,

warm evening wind

whipping bangs across our foreheads

like sunburned backlit straw.

After bad haircuts, mom would tell us 

"well, it will grow back" 

as if it were a given

like the wild weeds

sprouting across miles of roadside ditches,

like the endless summer hayfields

blurring beyond the windows.

If they could, I bet those windswept grasses

would let go at the roots,

rise into the late light,

and blow away.

Shimmering strands

disappearing over dark horizons.

They would know nothing

of tangled braids

or of holding our breath

or of curls falling,

one after the other,

down to the kitchen floor.

in response to Knoll, South Portland, 3/15 by Jon Tobiasz

Betsy Banks is an educator who utilizes photography and writing to explore place, relationships, and the natural world. She works at a university in Cleveland (Ohio), connecting students and community through civic engagement programs that promote deeper understanding and social change.