Moondrops

Marilyn's ruffled collar rested gracefully on her clavicle, the sheer ivory silk complementing the tailored periwinkle lapel of her Sunday jacket. Her daughter, Constance, in the next car suppressed a grin, proud to have gotten the thing on her mother today. Sunday indeed. It was Marilyn's most stylish outfit, but for years she'd refused to wear it, citing that at her age there wasn't an occasion special enough for such a well-made suit of clothes. But today Constance got to see the product of so many hours of conscientious stitching adorning her beloved mother. And without the orange lipstick for once.


"It's called Persian Melon"

"I'm sorry to break it to you, but that is bright orange."

"I've been told that warm tones suit me. I like it."

"Mother, why do you think Revlon Moondrops #585 is the only orange lipstick at the store? Because no one else is foolish enough to wear such a god-awful color on their face. I think the Newberry stocks it specifically for you."

"Well that's very nice of them." She smiled and turned back to face the mirror and clip on her pearl earrings.

"I just wish you could see yourself sometimes. You're such a beautiful woman and you ruin it with all that garbage you put on."

"Well, I don't think it's garbage. This is how I've always dressed. This is how I've always worn my make-up. I don't see why I have to change who I am now because it doesn't suit you. You're welcome to change with every fad that comes along. You're young, you're supposed to. But let me be."

"It's not about fads, it's about knowing what works for you."

"This works for me, dear."


But today Constance got her way. The sun glinted brightly on the late morning caravan, seeming to her simultaneously appropriate and not. She was pleased with her mother's appearance. She'd gotten up early, long before anyone else in the house to go down and fix her mother up. When Constance walked into the room, Marilyn was a clean slate, ready for her make-over. She lay quietly while Constance applied soft, natural-hued powders and creams gingerly not to disturb her mother's cool, delicate skin. Marylin didn't argue for once, didn't insist on Persian Melon. The transformation was remarkable. When Constance was done she could only describe her mother as looking altogether natural.

She'd pressed the suit the night before and selected appropriate accessories. Constance gave in on the earrings. Her mother loved them, and anyway they matched the silk blouse and the pearl buttons on the jacket. Marilyn's joints were a little stiffer than usual, but Constance was used to the silent struggle of tugging fabric over her mother's arthritic limbs. As she arranged the collar, she thought an occasion special enough, but didn't dare say this out loud.

Now, in the passenger seat of her daughter's late-model coup, Constance glanced at the police officer next to her window and thought he looked out of place, riding along so slowly on his motorcycle. She slid her right hand into her special occasion purse and pulled out a marbled emerald tube of Persian Melon, #585. She removed the cap, twisted up the stump of waxy orange lipstick, and breathed in its sweet, oily, vaguely floral smell. Without looking at a mirror for guidance, she applied an even layer of her mother's signature shade to her own lips, then covered her face with her cold, dry palms.