𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝, guy germaine

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 | makeup

I STIFLED BACK TEARS in front of the floor-length mirror I shared with my mother, seeing myself in my work uniform for the first time. It wasn't that I didn't like how I looked, it was that I looked grown up. Mama always said that if you can be innocent, you'll look it, but I felt so insecure in this. I looked like a woman when I still wanted to look like a girl.

I was correct about how the shirt fit me, just the right length to tuck into my jeans, but tight at the chest even with the open neckline. While I knew that could mean I would get more tips, it didn't make me feel better about it.

I twisted from side to side, watching my legs in these jeans. They looked nice over my boots since they were a light wash, but they were tighter than they used to be. I don't know how that could be - I was eating far less than I used to without trying. Having a mom with cancer and no money doesn't exactly make one have a big appetite.

I really, really did not need to look sexy for this.

There was a slight knock at the door, my mama's gentle hand - one I could never mistake for another.

"Come in." I said, sitting back on our bed. She opened the door, keeping her motion slow to hold back the pain she obviously felt. All she had to do was smile for me to grow more upset but also more happy somehow. Happy that she liked my uniform, upset that I couldn't do more to help her.

"You look beautiful." She told me. "My little girl, no longer a rag doll."
"Oh mama, you never dressed me in rags! And I would wear these jeans to tatters." I assured her.
"I know you would. You always did." She sat next to me, kissing my cheek. "Sometimes I wish you'd all stop growing. But then I remember that I wouldn't be much of a mother if I never let my kids grow up."
I really wanted to freeze this moment in time - mama looking at us in the mirror like I was her most prized creation, me looking to mama for that last bit of childish hope that maybe, maybe she would live through this. Yet even in my desperation, I knew that would be impossible.

"Do you want me to do your hair and makeup?" She asked, breaking my tension. "I should have taught you by now."
"Go ahead, you can teach me now. I have time."
She smiled wider, going to the closet and dusting off her caboodle of things she kept on the top shelf. It wasn't very often that she touched it these days - she was too busy taking care of us to focus on her appearance - but she always knew what to do. If my father had stayed alive, she always said she'd become a beautician when us kids were all in school. Sadly, that dream had been far down the toilet for nine years.

"Alright honey, sit at the vanity, I'll show you all you'd like."
I obeyed her word, walking to the small vanity on the opposite end of the room, taking my seat on the chair but knowing she needed it more. She started with curling my hair and styling it with my hat, every move being ginger and green - how it always was. It made me tear up having her dote on me like I was a little kid again.

Sometimes all a girl wants is her mama, and knowing she won't always be around hurts enough. But seeing that she won't always be around slips a knife into your heart. I had been bleeding for weeks.

She noticed my tears, sweeping them up with a quick slide of a gentle finger.

"It's gonna be alright, Opal... why don't you sing for me?" She rubbed my shoulder with the hand she wasn't using for the iron. "Sing for me, nightingale, it makes you feel better - I know it does."
So I started to sing, not focusing too much on what or how, just letting my voice run. I always believed singing had this therapeutic affect on me. It made me calm down and gave me something else to focus on.

Within a few minutes, the boys trickled in one by one, taking seats around us to listen to me and be close to mama. Chris had his head on my thigh, criss-cross on the floor, Jimmy was sitting on the edge of the bed, right behind mama, and Boone was sprawled out on the mattress, watching us both in the mirror.