Mascara Wand

 The first time I wore makeup, I used my mother’s old eyeshadow palette that she’d had for at least ten years. Well, I shouldn’t even really say I used her makeup — all I did was turn my chin up and close my eyes as my mother grazed the teeny little makeup brush over my eyelids. It was before my 8th grade performance of the Living Stations of the Cross. I was too scared to wear mascara because my mother couldn’t apply it for me, and I was terrified of poking myself in the eye with the spiky mascara wand. Looking back, I probably looked absolutely ridiculous. But it didn’t matter. I would have rather looked incomplete than hurt myself.

Now, I smear tinted moisturizer around my face until my skin tone finally looks even. I powder blush over my cheekbones to avoid looking like a ghost. I paint on my eyeshadow until it is tastefully dark enough on my eyelid. Finally, I wield that mascara wand and take to my eyelashes. Each swipe becomes a beat to the mournful march sounding in my head. You. Can’t. Cry. Now. It. Will. Smudge. The wand then goes back into its tube. Not so scary anymore. It’s a weapon I can protect myself with now.

I slip on my black dress. I grab my heels, the In Memoriam card, and my sister’s hand. My chin is held high and my tears are held back.

Someone has to keep it together today.

Spring 2023