Elizabeth Bruenig for The Atlantic, here:
... My mother used to pick me up from day care in paisley dresses or
broomstick skirts with slouchy boots, hair hot-rolled and blown out,
with the lived-in scent of faded perfume: full glam for an eight-hour
workday with a 45-minute commute on either end and then a second shift
at home, cooking any number of demanding meals—fried chicken, smothered
pork chops, breakfast for dinner with biscuits and gravy—and then
helping me and my brother with our homework and loading up the
dishwasher, all before she took her makeup off. I used to sit beside her
and talk with her while she took her evening bath, watching while she
rinsed her mascara off and finally breathed. ...
