But his chin was trembling.
“She’d put an old bedsheet around my shoulders,” I said. “Like this cape. And she’d sing while she did it. Always the same song. Something about a bluebird.”
I don’t know why I said that last part. It just came out.
Ray opened his eyes.
He looked at me in the mirror, and the tears spilled over. Down his cheeks. Into his newly trimmed beard.
—Sobre el arco iris —dijo roncamente. “‘Bluebirds fly’”.
I stopped. The clippers buzzed in my hand.
That was the song.
That was exactly the song.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
Él no respondió.
Apagué las cortadoras. El salón se quedó muy tranquilo.
I picked up the scissors one last time. I trimmed the last few strands above his collar. My hands were shaking now. I could barely hold them still.
And as I made the last cut, he suddenly started crying.
