The White Hair

By Elizabeth Smith

I gaze at the hair in my reflection:

It is evidence that I am ripening,

that my body is catching up with my “old soul.”

It is a testament that I have survived the challenge

of simply living, day after day.

It is a rite of passage from a young adult

to a true adult.

It is the first, amid the sea of dark hairs, to stand

out, a trailblazer for its soon-to-be followers.

I twist the strand around my finger
and yank it out.