Bushy Head Bosh

The nickname developed my signature. It highlights my art. It twinkles in my writing.
It created me. It tattooed my life.

For years I’ve grown my hair wild, wiry, nappy, free, and bushy..

He sings..”Bushy Head Bosh..Bushy Head Bosh”..

For days, actually since the funeral, I have hidden my hair, in ponytail. Tucked behind my ear. Tied tight behind me. Ruffed hair down the back of my neck, crumbled down the center of my back. My long locks hidden from my view, only revealing dark eyes, sunken cheeks, and weary neck.

I guess, I’m too afraid to welcome any sort of normalcy back into my life. Too fearful to “recover”. Frightened of refusing grief.

I guess, I feel that if by chance I would appear functional, normal, usual, or “Myself”, I would be admitting that “it” didn’t occur. If I looked like the same person that I have been for over a decade..would I not be saying that death didn’t come to visit. That death didn’t come to stay longer than expected, then stole my priceless gem.

My life has changed.. it has turned and shook.

He created the nickname that created me…
As a baby; barely walking, he’d sing..”Bushy head, Bushy head Bosh”.. I’d run.. and laugh.. wearing my Mommy’s Afro 70’s wig that would fluff and plump, in my wind.

Years grew old.. and “Bushy Head Bosh”, stayed. It sang loud within..so much so..that it became who I am.
Wild, Free, spiraling here and there, twisted, curled, thick, nappy and bushy. Rarely a scalp to be seen. Full of secrets, entangled and intricate. Stubborn and unruly. But, with a little moisture..I ease, I slick, I lay and rest.

But, now.. I hide..I wrap.. I cover.. I band and bind. Me and my mourning has caused me to question my identity. Or maybe, it’s that it’s just too painful to unloose the me that he helped to create.

I think “Bushy Head Bosh”, needs to rest up, thin out, and think. So, my hair will stay full, tightly wrapped, and behind me..until I’m ready.

I love you Pa Pa.

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I am who I am, simply.

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