Resonance

My mom wore makeup again 250 days after my dad died. Well, 247 days to be exact. Blue eyeshadow with blue mascara. A smudge in the corner of her eye. I realized she wasn’t used to wearing it and rubbed her eye without remembering she shouldn’t.

I used to watch her put mascara on when I was little. Her mouth slightly open, the hair falling over her opposite eye as she would pull the brush through her lashes.

I overheard things my dad would say sometimes. Accusations. Creative insults. She pretended his words bounced off her ears instead of burrowing inside, interrupting her thoughts.

She withered away, a slow dehydration of her self esteem. A cactus, calloused. Sorrow etched into her dry face. She created a different kind of mask for herself. Heavier than makeup ever was.

Today we sat in a booth across from each other. Laughing and talking while eating breakfast. Celebrating my baby’s third birthday. And my mom’s outfit was not an oversized sweater and sweatpants. Stained and torn. Her uniform for decades. Today her sweater dress hugged her and so did I.