As with every Sunday,
My mother would stand in front
Of the mirror,
Surrounded by makeup, and
Separate from the
Sense of urgency that
Lingered in the house like
The distinct smell of perfumed that
was attached to her.

She took her time and paid
Close attention to each detail.
When she brushed her hair,
She did so with great
ease and caution,
As if she cared for each
strand to be in its place.

When I tried to speak to her,
I would get no answer.
In her face,
Sadness could be found
In the usual place
of her smile.
This seemed to be
the reason why
her face was covered
so with make up.

Those Sundays
slowly faded
until they were
no longer there.
But the make up
was still there
Waiting to be
someone’s façade