Today I passed your room and you were slowly quietly combing your hair. It was a pleasant, calm moment. I felt the silence of the room and could almost hear you growing. You combed without a mirror, your eyes distant and pale, your head slowly nodding like the head of a stroked animal.
Xerxes the King sent out a spy who returned to camp, astonished to say that the Spartans were all stripped to the waist their bodies gleaming in the Aegean sun and they were all carefully combing their hair. The king was afraid then. The Spartans were preparing to die.
I turn slowly from your doorway and return to the linen closet where I will fold this memory in my heart among everything that is clean and fresh and white.