The scrunchie was in my hair this morning

The scrunchie was in my hair this morning,

tangled at the back where things get lost,

wine-colored velvet. No warning

that it would snap—the cost

of age, of time, of being soft.

My mother wore one just like this.

I remember her pulling her hair aloft

with the same casual motion, that bliss

of not thinking about what you're using,

not knowing it matters. The elastic snapped.

The fabric started its confusing

separation at the seam. I was trapped

holding this small ruined thing

that used to be good, that used to be hers,

that used to mean something. A ring

of decay. The velvet blurs

at the edges now, darkening.

I didn't throw it away.

It sits on my dresser, hardening,

falling apart every day.