The Reset.

Cleaning out the office—

a fresh start

for the new job—

and I found my mother’s lipstick.

Too dark, too used,

still in her purse

when they handed it to me

after she died.

It’s been eight years.

It sat on a desk in plain view

for coworkers to see,

then in a box,

moved across state lines,

and settled here, waiting

for this moment.

Is this the missing relic

I’ve needed?

I’ve never used it.

But tonight I might.