It catches me off guard. A simple item like a pink make-up brush, sitting innocently in the middle of my kitchen table. Like a time tunnel.
“You still have this?”, I asked my mom, amused at the memories that came flooding back.
“It’s been in my purse. Abby got it out.”
Before I knew it, I was an unsure 17 again. Experimenting with the latest eyeshadow tips out of magazines and applying mascara until it was close enough, though never quite the same as instructed. Wash, repeat, sometimes until my cheeks were red. A sentence of occupying our single bathroom for hours on end, staring at my reflection from multiple angles.
Wishing I was someone else. Who fit in. Who was beautiful and better.
I could see myself, hunched over the bathroom sink, cases of powder and colors around me. It was as if I traveled back 15 years before I was reminded of the now.
“That’s mine!”, my little Abby declared, grabbing the brush out of my hand. And I was back again. “Grandma gave it to me.”
Then as I sat, my daughter, thankfully still far away from uncertainty and self-doubt, positioned herself in front of me and began to sweep the soft bristles over my cheeks. The scent of memories in old make-up held within and familiar, yet forever ago. That girl I once was, who didn’t know then. If I could tell her, I’d say you don’t need magazines or pore-clogging foundation. There is already a strong base to stand on. One day you will be enough. You will fit in and your beauty will shine to those who truly matter.