I used to never see my mother cry. Her tears were a sight seldom gazed upon, like a solar eclipse or a glimpse at true love. She wore a smile every day. Wrapped around her cheeks and crinkling her eyes at the corners. She truely was beautiful.
Now seeing her with glassy eyes is a regular occurrence. She walks around clutching her hands to her chest and sniffling at old photographs. She sighs at happy memories, as if they've become distant from her. She still wears a smile each day, but the smiles she fashions are false. They do not bring the colour to her cheeks as they used to, and her eyes don't crinkle up at the edges.
When I see her, it's as if I'm seeing her from behind the curtain of the stage. I can see all the tap shoes and costumes and sequins that go into making her lie seem believable. I see the cracks in the floor, the holes in the curtains, and the threads that have come loose from her sleeves, but all the audience sees is a smile.
I seldom see her smile now, only the face that people mistake for happiness.
