My Great-Grandmother did not turn grey in her old age, she went white instead. The photos of her in younger years are tinted sepia to the point where I’m not sure what colour her hair once was. I think it might have been the same brown as mine, but that’s just a guess. I’m sure my mother would remember if I asked her.
In my memories her hair is the same colour as icing sugar. The sort we sieved over golden mince pies straight from the oven in the kitchen, bronze mincemeat bubbling through the cracks. Though we only made them at Christmas in my head the sun is beating through the windows and the tress are heavy and green. Beneath my tiny feet the orange seat of the dining room chair creaks with each movement I make and there is flour beneath my finger-nails, packed tight beneath the tiny half moons. I know it is my job to decorate the pie crust before it goes in for baking. These stubby fingers will mash pastry rolls into smiles too thick to cook all the way through. When they break open after dinner, the dough is still white.
Spring brings daffodils
snowdrops, tulips and crocus.
They don’t stop growing.
It’s Haibun Monday again at dVerse Poets Pub and tonight our prompt is ‘grey’. For some reason it reminded me immediately of a comment my Gran once made about my Great-Grandmother not going grey but going white instead while both her and my mum had grey streaks starting to appear.