4 minute read
graped-up
It’s the little things.
SOMETIMES, it’s the littlest, most ridiculous, almost unnoticeable things that help me to keep going:
receiving an unexpected text from an old friend;
watching a tiny lizard lapping water from a drop on the patio floor;
finding that perfect shade of lip color.
OVER TIME, while readjusting to all that I’ve lost, these small things, these slivers of joy, have added up to living:
texting an old friend;
smiling at a very thirsty lizard;
wearing that new lip color.
RECENTLY, needing some girl time, my close friend Michele and I met at Ulta. She was looking for a gloss; I was hoping to find a new color in my favorite lip crayon line. I’d recently cleaned out my makeup drawer, and wanted to treat myself to a new shade of lipstick. The plan: we’d shop for a while then head to dinner, Salsas for Mexican food.
I went straight to the Clinique chubby sticks, which are really like an upgraded Chapstick with a wash of color. The gazillion lipstick products in the store overwhelm me, so I like that there are only a handful of chubby stick colors—it’s easier for me to decide and pick one.
Got it. My new color is called “graped-up,” and I think the neutral, barely there shade is the one.
Living. Next stop: chips and salsa.
wearing lipstick is living
SUMMER 2007. Three months after my son Sam’s death, my mother-in-law was in town visiting. We were strolling aimlessly through the aisles of Target shopping for what, I don’t recall. She said she needed lipstick, so I guided her to the makeup section where the two of us began searching for that perfect shade that might brighten or change the way things were.
an excerpt from my book Willower
lipstick
In a dream, I was walking, and Sam was riding his bike along the edge of the blacktop, concentrating, trying not to slip into the gap between the weeds and the road, an aerialist on a tightrope. Without looking back, he rode ahead of me and left the ground, then flew away. I chased after him, flying, too, but I couldn’t keep up. He disappeared in the dark, and I fell to the ground, winded.
Awake then, I heard breathing. Sam?
Mommy, I’m here.
Sam? Where are you?
I got out of bed and checked my closet. Maybe he was there? It’s my safe room, a walk-in shrine, where I talk to him; where I keep a lifetime of videos and photos and artwork boxed in chronological order. A ruby-red jewelry box, a Mother’s Day gift. A large plastic bin full of his things: his baby album; favorite dragon shirt; plastic pet lizard, Lizzy; beloved toy rabbit, Bunny. I stood in the dark listening to breathing sounds, my heart beating. Sam, are you here?
Every morning, I return to my closet and perform my daily ritual. I’ll dress in his memory in a neutral and safe outfit. Careful, because clothes are reminders of certain days. There are two suits I’ll never wear again—one, pale linen, which danced at a bar mitzvah; the other, black linen, which died at a funeral. The shirt and shorts I’d worn on his last day I got rid of; the shoes I don’t remember, so it doesn’t matter which pair, I guess. I’ll begin my routine with the Strength pendant, then slide on the silver ring with the tiny gold heart which cost, with tax, $18.18. Some days, I’ll add superficial details to prepare myself as an actor would for a scene: makeup, hair, earrings, and lipstick. It’s crazy how lipstick can transform a face so that even the clown wearing it believes she’s smiling.
“Why am I even buying lipstick?” I had said to my mother-in-law, Miriam, a Holocaust survivor and educator.
We were standing in the makeup aisle in Target when she taught me a weighty lesson with four matter-of-fact words. “Because wearing lipstick is living.”
And so I was living . . . but in solitary confinement, stuck somewhere between dreams and reality. Grieving, yearning, talking to myself in a closet, my holding cell. Learning, one precarious step at a time, how to get my shattered self out of bed, and dress, don jewelry, his ashes in a pendant, comb my hair, and apply lipstick.
Excerpt from Willower: Rewriting Life After Loss, Chapter 6. Searching
TO GET THROUGH YOUR DAYS, have you ever worn (or still wear) any special memory pieces , jewelry, clothing? Or, what are some little things that have added up to living and helped you to keep going? Leave me a comment below.
(Your email address will not be published.)
Willower: Rewriting Life After Unimaginable Loss is available on Amazon or anywhere you buy your books: B&N, BAM!, Bookshop.org.
Willower.org 