Revlon

Certainly not the Angel Red I might

try, Fire and Ice was my mother’s one

and only, flaming her lips and smooching

my father’s. Faithful to her favorite

shade, she lived her creed of right and

wrong. She did not convert to a miniskirt

or wear pants, except for hiking,

and never applied pink by any name.

The click when she capped the sleek

cylinder was as distinct as the tap,

tap of high heels on hospital tiles

to announce the doctor making rounds.

Before introducing me to one of her

colleagues, she’d . . .