Makeup

Blind now, my mother tilts her chin up, closes her eyesto receive the liquid foundation I stroke across her browas if bestowing a benediction. The last time I touched herface my fingers were small, her glamour a mystery.I smooth and blend the beige into fissures bracketingher eyes, nose, and mouth. Her makeup drawer releasesshimmering clouds of powder that rise and sift backdown. Strands of dark brown hair are lacquered tothe wooden bottom. Her arsenal of jars, pots, and wandsare used up, colors outmoded. A dried-out crater of rougecedes a dab for both cheeks, her skin gives way under myfingertips. Here is her lipstick—Cherries in the Snow—worn flat to the rim. I swab enough to redden her mouth.She rolls her lips together spreading the color. I say we aredone and hold a mirror in front of her face. She turns herhead this way and that, pretending to see herself beautiful.