A Curly Lock of Hair

The Laughing Boy -Frans Hals (Art Museum Mauritshuis)
I took pic in The Hague, Netherlands with Holden

I hold a little blue box

With joy.

A locket of hair.

Its browns and golds sparkle

In the light.

When you were three

You asked your mom to cut your hair.

It floored her you know.

A show of your independence.

A show of her act of love.

For your mom to snip your curls. 

Like flecks of gold

Cut away from a Byzantine Art piece.

When you get to be 8 or 9 years old

I’ll ask you, 

“Do you want to see a treasure?”

“Of course, Nanna, show me!”

I’ll have you follow me.

You’ll watch expectantly as I pull out a small blue box.

Before I open it, I’ll pause.

For your full attention.

“This is so precious.” 

 I’ll say as I hug it to my heart.

My eyes will make sure they reach yours.

I’ll reverently open the box.

“It’s hair!” 

You'll most likely say with disgust.

“It’s your three-year-old self’s curl,” 

I’ll reply with a smile.

“Your Mom let me keep one.”

“Aw, Nanna, that’s creepy!

I thought it was a rare coin or something.”

You’ll probably laugh.

I’ll put it away, 

as it was.

Gently covered with a Japanese silk scarf.

I’ll take your hand before you bolt off.

“It’s a part of you - that is a part of her.

Which makes it a part of me."

You'll smile at my eccentricity,

I’m use to your silent responses.

I have no doubt, though.

You’ll think about what I’ve said. 

Not so much in the moment.

But, you’ll consider the importance.

How I captured a rare treasure.

Your curly lock of hair.

In a little blue box.