We Meet for the First Time in Two Years

See we are both gray— you lightly streaked, I a gray more advanced and total, unlike many — most — gray-concealing peers unsure whether to give their jet and gold and fun reds to gray, as if our flesh and faces were not gray in their own fashion. Is our gray distrust sheer fear of death — carrying gray as mark of shortened earthly time, or just a gray dislike as if too blurred — too much a shuffling — gray a mix of cleaner black or bolder white. Gray is mist. Gray is today’s harbor water. Gray is this morning’s cloud cover. Gray is the varied hue of half the towers across the cold bay. Gray is the paint on our house, the chin of our dog. Gray is where I’m going and gray is where I am. My friend, I am happy for your gray. We laugh at how we welcome our gray. For us gray hair is comfort with self. Crones stand gray. Perhaps our gray means we know what we want. Gray is simple. Gray is my nature and yours. Our gray unites us women willing to be like this gray hour, come as is. We wonder if our gray will silver? For now, we are gray. Your gray beautiful strands lighten my mood. Friend, you understand me, gray.