LIPSTICK

So, what's it like; being without Gwen this Monday morning?  I awakened to sunshine streaming in the window and shining bright on my favorite picture of her.  It's one of those sunny, clear, crisp days that she loved.  Sometimes I wonder if there will come a time when I'm not constantly remembering things about her.  Then I remind myself that there are fifty years worth of memories; it should not be a surprise that they pop up out of nowhere, like mushrooms after a warm rain in May.  This summer, when I emptied the glove box of our car, I discovered a tube of lipstick that Gwen always kept there:

LIPSTICK

Her lipstick tube remains

in the car glove box

where she left it;

we never went anywhere

without it.

Peruvian Bronze seems like

a strange color for those red lips

I once kissed;

I twist it open,

see where it matched

the contours of her lips—

knowing that it once

massaged her lips 

brings her near.

Brings back the many times

before church,  a movie, a visit with friends;

it was the last thing she did;

pull down the visor,

look in the mirror, trace her lips,

blot with a tissue.

I can hear her gaily announce:

“OK, I’m ready, let’s go.”

And go we did.

John A. Bayerl, October 17, 2011

How could I have been annoyed, Dear, when you insisted on putting on lipstick before we went in to the meeting, or doctor appointment or whenever you thought it was important to look your best?  You wanted me to be proud of you--as if I weren't already.