The lipstick shade called Rosewood

Dear Delyara, I prepare bodies for funerals, and this morning the woman brought into our room was my mother. Another mortuary could have done the work, but I could not allow strangers to decide how she would look during the final hours people were permitted to see her. My sisters brought the red lipstick she wore to weddings, baptisms, and every photograph in which she wanted the world to believe our family was doing well. The shade was called Rosewood. Her lips had become dry and pale after weeks in intensive care, and my hands shook so badly that I drew the first line unevenly. I wiped it away and began again. I have painted hundreds of dead mouths, closed hundreds of eyelids, and arranged hands so families can imagine their loved one resting. None of that training prepared me for the softness of my mother’s cheek beneath my fingers. When I finished, my youngest sister entered and said, “She looks like Mama.” Everyone treated that as praise. I went into the supply cupboard and cried because I knew the difference. She looked like the woman who had raised us, but my mother had never been so still while someone else chose her face.