Untitled #26

This smell, of lipstick
and powder, I adored it
I can almost hear the rustle
of real silk - my mother's
party gown
a golden band on her finger
her only ornament
things almost forgotten
she is combing her hair, the
sadness in her face stays fixed
in the mirror, and the raised
hand with the comb too
soft music on the radio
once again I am
a little girl
watching her mom dress up
the best of all
the prettiest
my own
no one else's mom is like mine