By Michelle Moraitis
The sky is crashing, falling, driving her to scabbed knees and gruesome toiling. Like Atlas, her hair holds the expanse of sunlit blue and white speckled black – bruising every muscle of her neck. Her hair grows wide and strong, surrounding her like a halo to hold the world alone. In that mass of tendrils – pain, heartbreak, strength, beauty and fathomless grace. I wish I could understand but my life was easy. And my hair grew straight.