He would kiss my eyelids to wake me up in the morning. There would be silence in sadness and happiness. He would hold my head below his, but also above. There would be pride and encouragement, not envy and depreciation. I would smile when his back is turned. He would think a lot, but say only the unimportant things.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
A Lesson
“Here, do you want me to do it?” She rests her pinky on my cheek firmly, and I close my eyes. I think of her with a Styrofoam headdress and a close-lipped smile. It was for her low self-esteem my mother had told me. I was shocked.
“You put the dark color on the lid.” She blows hard into the synthetic, black fibers. Her hand lowers to the little plastic box, and she swiftly drags the brush across the packed crystals four or five times. “I’m not sure what this medium color is for, probably the middle.” She rests the ridge of her palm on my cheekbone.
Where had that gold dress come from? It dragged the ground when she walked across the stage. I was nervous for her and imagined myself in her place.
She drops the brush into the bag and swoops up a two-sided one. I open my eyes and look at the freckles on her face. “Angel kisses,” my mother called them. A few even spill over onto her lips. “Take the smaller side of the brush with the lightest color and highlight the arch, just beneath the eyebrow, like this.”
I wonder if they really taught her these things at modeling school. She liked to practice on me when I was younger, but she scolded me for having such small lips. She said my top lip was practically non-existent.
As she turns back to her own hand mirror, I pull out my two-sided lip-gloss. One side is for the color, one for the shine. I apply it, then turn and watch her.
Did they tell her how beautiful she is at that school? She wore a teal-green shirt and her hair down in the pictures. The gold dress had a slit up one side, but she didn’t win.
She zips her make-up bag and looks over at me. “Wow.” She pushes her hand mirror at me. “Look how pretty you are.”
“You put the dark color on the lid.” She blows hard into the synthetic, black fibers. Her hand lowers to the little plastic box, and she swiftly drags the brush across the packed crystals four or five times. “I’m not sure what this medium color is for, probably the middle.” She rests the ridge of her palm on my cheekbone.
Where had that gold dress come from? It dragged the ground when she walked across the stage. I was nervous for her and imagined myself in her place.
She drops the brush into the bag and swoops up a two-sided one. I open my eyes and look at the freckles on her face. “Angel kisses,” my mother called them. A few even spill over onto her lips. “Take the smaller side of the brush with the lightest color and highlight the arch, just beneath the eyebrow, like this.”
I wonder if they really taught her these things at modeling school. She liked to practice on me when I was younger, but she scolded me for having such small lips. She said my top lip was practically non-existent.
As she turns back to her own hand mirror, I pull out my two-sided lip-gloss. One side is for the color, one for the shine. I apply it, then turn and watch her.
Did they tell her how beautiful she is at that school? She wore a teal-green shirt and her hair down in the pictures. The gold dress had a slit up one side, but she didn’t win.
She zips her make-up bag and looks over at me. “Wow.” She pushes her hand mirror at me. “Look how pretty you are.”
Disappointed
Raindrops hit different formations of cement, pool, and slide away. I apply to school, plan my life around it, and get rejected. Roots crack the sidewalks, and I continue to write. Umbrellas, pointed roofs, rubber, and Vinyl. Drainpipes and gutters. And I’m still all wet.
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