Elegy Ending in the Sound of a Sewing Machine

Today I say I’m going to visit my mother in California—
though we have not spoken in years—it sounds perfect
to say on my birthday. I’ve always thought so, ever since

I saw a movie where a woman flies around the world
to brush her dying mother’s hair. This morning, I cut
my hair with orange scissors in the bathroom, then looked

in the mirror, expecting to see my mom’s ivory face. I squinted
to magnify the stray hairs, kept cutting till my bangs were even
enough. Haircuts at home are a kind of youth, and it ends

poorly or mostly forgotten. I packed two dresses and drove
out of the country. I like a road that keeps me awake. I like a road
where the speed limits change and there are other signs,

like a deer jumping up, Icy Road, or Mountain Ahead.
And somewhere, a known downward slope. I watched
someone who could be my mother driving behind me

in a sputtering pickup with an old sewing machine tied to the bed
of the truck. I thought, even now someone with tangled hair
is watching her mother sew a yellow dress for her birthday.