I take the cobbled path through town

that I have walked for years.

The streets are for the wary—

ice strewn here and there

as if they had tired

of the nagging shovels.

The air still

with the silence of February.

I have lived here so many years

you’d think I’d have

a story to share

for every building, every empty lot,

but the town and I have changed,

and like most my age,

I mourn

the way it was.

I scan the scurrying passersby

between hat

and scarf, searching

for a familiar face,

but so many of those

I once knew are gone.

Fingertips and toes growing numb,

I turn and head for home.

It grew back straight and soft

with the texture of

mulberry silk.

Surreptitiously, I searched old pictures

to test my memory—

those orchestrated black

and whites of me at 2

or 3 or 4, with

that “say cheese” smile.

And I

had to admit

I once again had the hair

of a toddler. Memory

of my mother

brushing my cowlick

into obedience

came back

each time I glanced

at the mirror.

In this old house

hidden away somewhere

is a tuft of my toddler hair

under glass.

I search haphazardly,

but still I search—

this drawer, that box,

as if a modern Ponce de León