Washing Her Face


She never liked me to watch her
clean her face.
She said
it was like having someone watch
as your soul was stripped
to it's bare essentials.
First she'd brush her hair,
then pull it back,
holding it from her face with a plastic band.
Then,
when she wore them,
the eyelashes came off,
the mascara,
and the makeup,
in it's various layers.
The lipstick
she saved for last,
as if it was the final desecration.
She'd wash her face then,
with the special soap she bought,
slowly,
gently,
as if savoring the pleasure.
She never liked me to watch her
clean her face,
but I secretly spy,
every chance I get,
through the partially open door.
I watch,
as chameleon like,
she wipes away the day,
and becomes the woman
I love,
and adore.

W. James Beard, Jr.