A Kiss of Color

She stared at the make up bag laying splayed out across her dirty sink. How long had it been since she had opened it? Were the contents inside still good? What would happen if they weren't? She traced her fingertip across the zipper with the hesitancy of a new lover. Would a little bit of make up even make a difference?

It was difficult to pinpoint the exact moment when she had stopped caring. Maybe it was the fact that she was in her late thirties. Maybe it was COVID and the advent of remote work and zoom which made her face look fuzzy anyhow, or maybe it was her child's cancer diagnosis. It was probably the last one. She couldn't even look at the pictures of herself from before her son's diagnosis two years ago. Her face then was still young, bright and full of life. It was un-suspecting and the joy and glow from a life well lived lit up her skin.

Two years of watching her son go through chemotherapy had left her with wrinkles along her worry lines. Her hair was all one length and split from years of not going to the salon so as to avoid germs. She looked like she had aged ten years, not two. It wasn't just her either, she saw it on the faces of her peers. The longer her son fought his cancer, the more parents she got to know. She would see their young beautiful faces from the times before diagnosis and then how much they would change after. She wondered if she would ever gain any beauty back. If she would ever recognize herself again.

Today was different though. She had been avoiding promotions, or really any kind of change. She wanted to do the bare minimum. Skirt through the edges of life with just enough motivation to keep living. But her son was doing better. Quarantines were being lifted and she could smell the scent of life on the air again. It was time to move forward. It was time to look ahead.

She opened the little black bag, her dry cracked fingers from too many days in those damned purple gloves doling out chemo pills searched among the wreckage of her make up supplies. Dotted amongst the old and decaying jars there were a few more recent containers, little whispers of hope that she had purchased over the past few years thinking she would use and never did. She lined them up like little a surgeon's tools on a tray and took a deep breath before opening her first one.

The brushes danced over her skin, painting a little kiss of color over those pale cheeks. They filled the worried lines and brightened her tired eyes. It felt as familiar as a long distance lover's embrace, slowly reminding her skin of the way it used to feel when they were together. As she finished working her canvas she stared back at herself. She was still in there, still waiting to live again. She was surprised to recognize that old face, even if it was only for the brief half hour that her job interview would take her.

She turned the lids of the jars closed, tucked away the soft brushes and closed the zipper on the bag with less trepidation than she had when she had first opened it. Perhaps she wouldn't bury it at the bottom of the cupboard where she had found it. Perhaps tomorrow she would clean the sink, lay out her case and start again. Perhaps there was hope.