The Vanity

You sat at your vanity every night.
It was your evening ritual.
I heard you open the jar of cold cream,
Its heady, rose-scented fragrance wafting
Sweetly and comfortably in my nostrils.
In grand yet gentle strokes,
With long, elegant fingers
You rubbed it onto your face,
Skin pale yet luminous,
Taking care not to get any into
Ice-blue eyes like diamonds
That were never cold but only shone
With love for me. I remember
Your arched perfect brows,
The red Clara Bow pout of your lips.
The bed where you nestled me
In between you and Grandpa
As I fell asleep to the portrait of Jesus
Glowing on the wall.
And now, I buy your same cold cream,
Take it home. Sit at my vanity, uncapping it
And rubbing it onto my face
With grand, gentle strokes.
And my eyes begin to mist, but I know
It's only from the cream.