Elizabeth Arden in Geranium Shimmer
Objects left behind by loved ones, whispering like ghosts.
“Put some lipstick on, you’re pale as a ghost!” my mother would always shout, as I began to head out the door. Mum never left the house without applying lipstick. She would wear it to go to the grocery store or the pharmacy, often without any other products like foundation, eyeliner, or blush. She bemoaned my own hesitancy towards makeup and then rolled her eyes when I embarked on my goth phase. If I looked pale without makeup on, then surely I was even more washed out with thick black liquid liner, drawn in upside crosses under my eyes. I still have one of my mother’s Elizabeth Arden lipsticks and it sits with my other makeup (I have a collection now that mum would likely approve of). It’s not even my shade and I can’t remember how it came into my possession. Did I borrow it? I must have forgotten to give it back, or rather, neglected to return it, as I did with so many of her clothes. I can’t bring myself to part with it though, so it sits unused, with my other lipsticks.
There are some things my mother gave me: many kinds of silver and peridot rings, though I rarely wear silver anymore; so many journals which I have attempted to fill, something she was always horrible at doing; and a card sent in a lucid moment, reassuring me that one day things would be alright. There are also some things my mother meant to give me: a beautiful set of Alexandrite jewelry that my grandfather brought back from Egypt, though it was lost in one of her many moves, or even more likely stolen; a substantial amount of inheritance from my grandparents’ estate that was squandered on rehabs and parasitic “friends”; and maybe also a sense of purpose or spirituality to aid my journey through an agnostic and ambivalent world, something she seemed to constantly seek and never find.
When my brother and father cleaned out her apartment, they found seeds for a rare variety of Spanish hydrangea, a symbol of her misguided hope, perhaps — hydrangeas rarely grow well in Albertan soil. I mentioned journals: when she died, she left at least 20 behind, mostly or entirely blank. It was as if she wanted to set down her truths, but always found herself unable to. We gave them away at her funeral, in hopes that others might put them to use. My contribution to the work of putting her affairs to rest was going through old photos and putting together a memorial video; the funeral home’s charge for this service was untenable. I worry still that she wouldn’t have liked the photos I picked of her, in part because she always struggled to realize her own beauty.
Mum had made the vague request that her ashes be spread “in places of nature.” They came divided into little baggies with her name on them and though we had the best intentions, my dad, brother, and I always forgot to take them with us on our various adventures. Finally, I volunteered to take the urn home, as my father was ready to move on and my brother had already found himself in the possession of the ashes of multiple friends. To be honest, I like having her around. She visits me in my dreams and finally things seem alright between us.