Makeup

She watches me closely. I set my powder, blush, mascara, and eyeshadow on the counter top, and fish around the bag for my chapstick. I run my hand across the collection of different colored bottles until I find the scent that is perfect for that day. I sweep up my bangs with a bobby pin and put the rest of my hair back into a messy bun. She quietly stares from her viewpoint down below.

There is magic in doing things 'like Mama' now. She begs to hold the brushes and dusts her face with them, trailing over closed eyes. She insists she needs lipgloss and perfume, too. I tell her those things are just for mamas, because little girls don't need them. And I wish I could make her believe that she is the most beautiful girl I know.

It's a lesson of beauty. She demands an explanation for what each item does and why I need it. She pretends to understand the reasons I give her. After trying to describe how mascara goes on eyelashes, and why I need to wear it, the whole thing makes me feel a little silly.

And I'm glad. Even if only for a few more short years, she sees me as I will always see her- in need of nothing to change me or improve me somehow. That I'm enough when I wake up in the morning.

If I could be anyone in the world, it would be the person she thinks I am.