Even in Death

Earlier that morning, the daughter of the deceased gently handed a makeup bag to the undertaker. “I know my mom,” she murmured. “She would have wanted to look her best.” The undertaker nodded and showed the daughter out into the frigid winter wind. Later, after the deceased had been properly dressed, the undertaker opened the makeup bag sitting on the table of utensils. He squeezed out a dollop of her foundation and brushed it over the deceased’s skin, bringing color to her face once again. Popping open her blush, he circled it around her cheekbones. He uncapped her red lipstick and painted over her blue lips. Mascara, eyeliner, eyeshadow, he went through the entire bag until nothing was left. She had an air of dignity about her, even in death.


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