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 . . .
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