It was two-thirty on a morning back in sixty-four,
and we met in a small hall between our rooms.
She stood robed with hair fanned over both shoulders,
light from the street made a dark silhouette
of her body.
With her silvery hair flickering
as she faced me,
she turned, and
I could see
the light in her hair
cascaded, falling off her back
to her waist.
It was the only glimpse I recall
of Grandmother,
with her hair down.
The first time
I noticed
how beautiful she was
as a woman.
--Tim Cusick
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