Time Passages.

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When I was a child
I slipped into my grandmother’s bedroom
picked up her pink enamelled hairbrush
from the vanity set
on her dressing table,
stroked the soft surfaces,
and watched as they caught the dusty light,
staring in wonder
at the strange grey hairs
tangled into the bristles.

The vanity set is long gone
but the grey hairs are still there,
caught in the bristles of the past,
no longer strange.
Now they are mine.
Time passes.
Nothing changes.

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