erosion

i am losing my hair. it comes out in long clumps, the strands wrapping around my hand and fingers. it sticks to the shower curtain. it nests in tiny piles in the corners of the bathroom. it threads its way through my husband's underwear: i find it as i fold the laundry and pull and pull the strand until it comes loose and floats away. it catches itself in the crevices of my son's neck. it turns up in the bread dough, the cracks in the keyboard, the toes of my socks, the soup, the pages of anna karenina. i find it underneath my pillow, long strands curled and waiting for who knows what -- easter bunny, tooth fairy, santa claus, a postpartum godmother?

it feels like erosion. my goddess body of motherhood [the curves, the thick rope of hair, the puffy ankles, the shining eyes] is disappearing: a mountain of sand caught in the fury of a spring rain. i am left a shuddering pile of pebbles, weary and missing sleep.

should i collect the hair, coaxing it from between my toes and underneath the couch cushions, into my lap? will i need a reminder of the way my body expanded as wide as the universe? will i forget the moment i first felt my son leap, somewhere between my navel and my hip? will it be buried in my own strata of memory?