My mother's lipstick, a deep shade of red, sat on her dressing table the morning after she died, the first thing I saw when I walked into her room.
My mind was already on what to take from her closet, what to bury her in, but that little pink tube arrested those thoughts, as did the odor, distinctly her own, that clung to her empty clothes.
I picked up the lipstick, looked in the mirror she had looked in every morning for decades, and colored my lips bright red.
Carefully, so carefully, gliding the cream across that delicate skin, thinking all the while: This is the last kiss.
Then I went to the closet and buried my face in an old sweater thinking: This is the last hug.
