Her paper hands brushed her silver streaked hair
curls whisper against her bare shoulder.
I held my breath. Stretching to the tips of my toes,
a streak of yellow light peaks through the bathroom door
she has carelessly left ajar.
In her hand she holds a mirror
the raised roses press into her pink palm
its edges dark from age, though not enough
to hide the soft, elegant line of her cheeks.
Nor blur the deep lines surrounding her mossy eyes.
Carved by laughter and worry.
From silly songs and first kisses.
From drunken husbands, passed out on the bathroom floor,
bloody fists beat against the door, “Let me in, dammit!”
From lost children, dead before they could speak.
She is so beautiful, even then.
It still smells like lilac and baby powder as I quietly
creep in.
I stretch to reach Grandma’s mirror,
It is still warm from her skin.
I need to use both hands, its heft too much for my tiny fists.
I stare. My plain face, the broad cheeks covered in freckles.
And I wish I was beautiful too.
