Wiping the Death Off
A story on family, a funeral, and lipstick
The first time my grandmother wore lipstick was a week after her death. The smell of vanilla candles floated through the red velvet carpeted room, where I avoided looking at the front of the room where my grandmother’s casket was placed.
“Why did they put lipstick on her?” my mother asked to no one in particular.
I’m sure she wore petroleum jelly to fight against chapped lips but never makeup. My mother started wiping the lipstick off my grandmother’s lips. I pulled on her sleeve, afraid she would get in trouble.
“Stop pulling on me. I gave the makeup person a picture of her. She doesn’t look like herself.”
I didn’t know how to help my mom, so I wandered to the dessert table being set up. I scanned the room but didn’t recognize anyone. Someone needed to help my mom. What if she removed every ounce of makeup from grandma’s tissue paper thin skin?
Was the makeup person here right now? How did a person become a makeup artist to dead people? Why did they pick that shade of red for an 82-year-old woman?
My aunt Patty startled me as I stared at the clock on the wall, counting the minutes to the end. “Oh Nicky, you look so nice. Where is your mother?”
