Closing Mother Down I’m trimming my sister’s hair when Mother makes for the scissors. "I’m the one," she begins. Her words sputter to a halt as I close the gaping blades. She stands, dwarfed in the kitchen she once ruled, and I see her as she was, bending low over the children’s curls, her movements precise and quick. I am the scissors cutting her from her old life now. Even as she opens me to loss, I begin to close her. Cheryl Snell If you have any comments on this poem, Cheryl Snell  would like to hear from you.