Mama

The arms around my shoulders linger. I breath in, shut my eyes and live in that perfect smell, that smell that has never changed and always brings me home. I let my breath out and relax into the familiar feel. I pat the arms around me. The skin is cold. Its texture is like raw oatmeal. "Mama! Your skin is so—dry." What I almost said was; "Your skin is so old!" I scuttle to the bathroom to get some lotion, thinking how every time I see her these days, she looks older than the last time I saw her. And now—this visit, she seems especially fragile. How annoying. How dare she not look like the mother of my childhood. I always expect Mama to look like she did when she was forty-nine. Jet black hair with the Elsa Lanchaster silver streak in the middle. Did I pick up the wrong lady at the station? Whose granny is this on my sofa bed? I look in the mirror and note the smile line Mama so willingly pointed out today. "Gosh", she said, "I never noticed that before. Have you had it for long?" I thanked her for pointing it out to me and ordered us both another bourbon and water. 

Mama's waiting. I reach for the Triple Lanolin, on permanent sale at CVS, but detour and grab the more expensive Dewberry Lotion from The Body Shop. It should soak in better, and I won't feel so guilty for thinking of her as an old hag. I return to the living room, cuddle up next to her, and begin massaging the ointment into her arms. In the soothing shiny smear, I see the mother of my memory at her dressing table. The table as high as my eye. Light from her make-up mirror glowing through the small and many bottles and flasks, casting coloured shadows and scents like candles on an altar. Mama picks up a jar and blindly spins the lid off while she examines her face in the mirror. I wait to see what she is going to do next. She lightly dabs the tips of her fingers into the lotion and just as delicately dabs the pink balm onto her face. With both hands she spreads it into her skin until there is no pink left. Then she picks up a small beige coloured bottle. I stand at her table, my fingers not even gripping the edge, and watch these movements of hers. Steady. Deliberate. Her eyes in the make-up mirror very serious and focused. I feel I have to be silent like in church. I'm afraid to make any noise—to breath. She picks up her brush and does a dance with her hair. In some choreographed order the hair is teased and sprayed and brushed and before I know it there is my Mother. Sitting on her borrowed piano stool in her white slip—perfect. Smiling at herself, pleased with her work. In the mirror she sees me looking at her. Her smile breaks into an open-mouthed grin and she turns to me, leaving her reflection for the moment. Her smooth, creamy arms reach down to me. She picks me up and sits me on her lap, squeezing me close. She smells so good! A song of creams and perfumes and powders that forever sing Mama. 

She looks at both of us in the mirror. "Who's that pretty girl? Hmmm? Who's that pretty girl in the mirror? Why, I think that pretty girl must belong to me. Do you think so? Do you think that pretty girl belongs to me?" Her arms around me are warm and smooth and soft. Safe. Her face is warm and smooth and soft. Still holding me, she picks a lipstick out from the treasures twinkling before us. She plucks the lid off, then top then bottom spreads valentine red in a perfect heart outline of her mouth. I watch enthralled. She is so perfect. So perfectly beautiful. 

Mama lies in bed enjoying my attention. I laughed at her today. She was telling me her lipstick woes. "I can't even find my lips now, and when I do they have these little creeks that the lipstick wants to flow into!" Her skin is not soft. It is not smooth. She has a bad blood bruise from wearing her watch. I'm careful not to rub too hard. Her face is lined and her nose seems sharper than I remember. Her lips are thin and I see the little creeks she was talking about. The blue vein just under her temple is too visible. Her hair is white. She doesn't tease it anymore. I finish putting the lotion on her arms and lean down to kiss her good-night. My cheek against hers, and my nose on her ear is home. The arms around my shoulders linger. I breath in, shut my eyes, and live in that perfect smell. 

Mmmmm. 

Home. 

Mama.