china blue
She sits on the kitchen floor near the wide window. I join her on the wheat-colored linoleum and face her. The sunlight quickly warms us up. My mom looks into her mirror, turning the handle left and right, right and left. A tangle of plastic bottles, tubes, cases, and shiny little tools sleep in a shallow decorative metal dish. She grabs a rectangular bottle and starts blending the toast-colored liquid over her cheeks, forehead, and chin. I study her face taking note of the way she pats her cheeks, rubs her forehead, dabs and swirls her makeup. She doesn't speak, as if she is alone. I stare at a pale pink tube laying in her dish with worn off letters, letters faded from the touch of her fingertips. The clatter and clank of containers she plucks from the dish and dismisses back breaks my thoughts. My favorite part begins. I assist and hand her the small square translucent case. The powder catches light, sparkling as she sweeps the tiny sponge tip over her eyelids. The light blue glimmering arches illuminate her face. My mom inspects herself in the mirror and approves. She sets her mirror in the dish and the show is over. Two almond-shaped brown eyes dressed in frosty China Blue smile back at me.