That was back when we first met, when
his hair was a mass of curls I loved to clutch in fistfuls when we
made love, when the thin lines around my eyes weren’t yet visible
and I didn’t get dizzy if I stood for too long. He was fresh out of
school and full of ambition, and that time we spent at Coney Island
was the last week of his civilian life, before he was assigned to
the 49th and they sheared his curls like sheep’s wool.
The day of the haircut, he came to my
quarters with a harsh frown marring his features—he knew I loved
his hair, and he was so afraid I’d be upset that it was gone. I
remember I made him stand at the foot of the bed and strip off his
clothes to prove to me they hadn’t shaved everything, and then he
crawled into my arms, naked and warm and laughing, and I spent the
rest of the day rubbing my hand over the prickly cut of his
hair.
A tear falls from my eye and lands on
the glass covering the photograph, a drop like rain that blurs my