Putting On My Mother's Face Poem by Sally Sandler

It's only 6: 45 a.m. You're early today,
my reflection watching me in the mirror
in your zippered robe, smearing on
cold cream to remove your face
before you put your face back on.

Remember, we had the same sable
eyes, until one of mine faded
to green—yours too, I see.
The smile's a good smile, actually,
until distracted you forget to use it,
the lower lip sags forgotten and worried,
like a small wave retreating from
sand, uncertain of itself, left stranded
out there on the beach.

At this moment, makeup-free, we'd
get no looks from pretty boys—
not these days—they'd be shocked by the
naked face, the pointy nose, beady eyes
plain as a sparrow, set deep in bone.
We rely on our masks, don't we.
But then, only up close would they see
the spark inside, the smoldering flame.

You've got my vertical lip lines, haven't you …
from lips pursed in pain, or determination?
I picture a lady's antique silk purse
deeply pleated with the cord pulled tight
to firmly hold onto what's inside.

We also share these horizontal lines
under the nose right here, three of them,
from a lifetime of putting on smiles.
And that left eye tears up every
morning, as if it hurts to see
the truth of a woman's aging face.