Make Up

I remember her hair. When I was young it was thick and dark. As I grew it grew steadily lighter and thinner until she was nearly bald.

I remember her dark side. When she'd get angry. Sharp fingernails and deeply tilted eyebrows. Partially drawn in.

Mascara before science discovered how to keep it from clumping. And rouge. On the cheekbones.

When I was little love was simply birthday presents and occasional ice cream. And family was everyone who had the same last name.

Her shoes. So many of them. Size six. All with the bulge on the right side where her feet bore that mysterious lump. Putting my small feet inside those rivers and letting them swim. 2, 3 inch heels in soft, cowhide leather. Blue and black and red.

Knee highs when she'd wear slacks.

Pink razors and soap to learn to shave your legs with.

Culers in her hair and woman sized bras in her chest of drawers.

Thick green carpet filling with cat hair. As she grew older. Bright white iceskates hanging in her closet mocking her refusal that she was getting older. Always. Everyday.

She never trust anyone. Not her child. Not her child's children. She loved herself more than anyone.

I go back to when I was young and she was the grandmother. And I wonder if all my childish love was wasted. Because it wasn't good enough later. When she wanted what we couldn't give her.

I wonder if it meant anything. Or were we just what she wanted then. Subjects upon her throne.

The offer of love so potent. Of course she took it. Just a child. Watching her apply her rouge. To her cheekbones. Examing the distorted shoes in her closet. So many.

What did she wear when she left us. What did she wear when she was alone?

Did she still rub that rouge into her cheeks. Did she still apply that clumpy mascara.

And why. Why did she make us leave her?