Rouge the cracked china of her cheeks. Tie a pink ribbon in her hair. Dress up the ninety-year-old for a visit from her relatives. And we come in and sit beside her, uncomfortable at the living funeral. She says, "Oh yes. Yes," to everything; but her eyes fold us back gently, pale as tissue paper. Hidden behind the bedroom door, she snips gold fringe from her mother's earrings, to make a necklace for her doll's Limoges white neck. She strokes the ribbon in her hair and smiles tenderly at the wall. We leave. Flat white shoes put her away unbroken. |