I Hope My Mom Has Hair in 2017

I hope my Mom has hair in 2017.
I hope the bags under my Dad's eyes aren't as heavy
Less like punching bags, maybe Ziploc bags.
I hope I never see that wig again,
The artificial imposter of a hairdo
That posed as a member of our family for too long.

I hope the eight-year foundation of tectonic plates built on hope
Don't come crumbling in our hands
Like a Nature Valley bar.
I hope we can still laugh in 2017.
I hope every child on the playground gets picked for a team
And the lunch tables are inclusive.

I hope I don't get into the cabinet with the sharp things again
And I use a razor to cut my face
And a knife to spread butter on my toast.
I hope I don't need a doctor's note to pass a class
And the airways in my lungs open up a little
And I can breathe
And when I talk I like the words coming out of my mouth.

Hopefully in 2017 the leaves on the tree of our humanity
Don't fall off
Like strands of hair falling to the ground.
But if they do
So be it.
Because that's the thing about hair
It always grows back.

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