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Wit and Wisdomby Beth BroderickLOST.It started gradually enough. There was just a pesky hair missing here and there. No big deal, but in the last year there has been a mass exodus. My eyebrows have fucked off. They are so few and so pale that I cannot leave the house without a quick once-over with a pencil. Of course, those only come in colors like brown and weird taupe, orange-y hues that no longer match my silvery/white visage, so finding the right shade has been a daunting task. This same phenomenon happened to my mother. Her eyebrows also just got up and left her face one day. She was part American Indian and had no body hair to speak of, but for most of her years she had a nice set of fringe framing her big brown eyes. When they disappeared, she tried for a while to set things right. Her eyesight was bad even with glasses; add to that she could not wear them and also decorate her brows, so she just got out the makeup mirror, put the eyewear aside, and decided to wing it. Now, the only pencil she had was a black eyeliner, so as you can imagine, the result was no bueno. It looked like large black caterpillars had attached themselves to her forehead, which, framed by her white hair (always stained yellow in places from nicotine), made for a somewhat startling image. This period was short-lived and, when she surrendered her makeup routine entirely, she was the more beautiful because of it. She never gave up smoking, so her hair was always streaked, but she was, in spite of all of that, lovely. She was not so nice at times, but she was, till the last, a looker. Yeah, no. I am not going to surrender my own beauty routine quite yet. So while I am still searching for the right shade, I am making do by mixing charcoal and taupe, filling in the gaps above my eyes, and hoping for the best. FOUND.I just didn’t feel right leaving them out. My mother had been so crazy protective about her “jewels.” Mom was not a planner. She cashed out every employee pension she ever had. There were several. She was a nurse who later became a quality assurance director. Hospital people move around. She apparently thought there would be no need for those funds in her future, so she bought stuff, mostly jewelry. It was her great passion, though nothing matched her love of cigarettes and champagne. She loved her silver and gold; it was her stated reason for refusing to let us have anyone to help out when she was dying. She held the conviction that any health aide we might employ would somehow find their way to her portable safe, break into the thing and take her prized possessions. When she passed, Laura and I got out the safe, which Laura had been given the code to unlock. “How much do you think it’s all worth?” Laura asked.I pulled out the two rings she had designed which had repurposed her wedding diamonds, “These. Maybe 1 or 2 K. The rest not much, Sis. We could sell it to a liquidator to melt down for maybe another 1 K, but this is mostly costume stuff. None of it has any meaningful monetary value. Let’s just give it to whichever niece has a feeling for it.” The two rings, which had actual worth, were split between Laura and me for a time, but she gave me hers, because she is over 6 feet tall and a larger human than Mom was. I am the only sibling who resembles Mom in size, though, sometimes for better and more often worse, we all share many of her characteristics. So, I kept the two rings that she loved most and I found it kind of healing to put them on and take her with me through my day. We had a rough go of it her last two years. Our relationship devolved back into my childhood patterns. Mom acting out, me trying to get her to behave, her resenting me, maybe even hating me a little for it and hitting me often. She was smart and funny and had her charms, but she was also hell on wheels. My sister and her wife provided her residence in their guest house, and gave it their all. I had, for decades, done everything I could to make sure she had what she wanted and needed. We supported her financially and every other way, but it was never enough. “Mom. I know you are telling everyone that I am a b***h.”“I never said that.” She hunched over and picked at her chin, a lifelong habit.“You say it all of the time. I am not a b***h, but when my sister calls me crying because you have pushed her to the brink, it’s my job to push back.”“Well, you are a b***h, but I never said that.”“Okay, then. Love you too, Mom.”After her death and the initial grief period that followed, I was startled to discover how much rage I felt. I was consumed by it. My body felt rigid, my nerves metallic. My mind whirred with something that felt like hate. It was as if after all of those years of abuse I no longer had to love her. She was gone and I could hate her guts, and I did for a minute—well, more like several months, if I am being honest. I hated her until the day that I didn’t. When compassion got the upper hand and called for the best of me to begin again to look for the love. Wearing her rings helped me lighten up. “We are going to Canada this time,” I would whisper to the largish hunks of gold on my freakishly small fingers. “Victoria. It is postcard pretty, my favorite place to shoot. Sorry, I never got to take you there; you would have loved it, Mom.”Those conversations in my head were a comfort.I was headed out of the country and decided it was safer to leave them here. I had been charged with their safekeeping and I felt an obligation to protect her things. So, I decided to hide them in my apartment in case of … well … who knows?It was maybe two months after I returned from Mexico when I realized the I had no recollection of where I had put Mom’s rings. NO idea. I searched and searched, but no go. I had to confess to Laura that I lost them, and I felt wracked with guilt, was sure that my failure to keep her things safe was a betrayal. What if I had put them in one of the worn pieces of luggage that I donated? What if they were accidentally tossed into a trash can or laundry hamper. What if???More months went by. The searches got less frantic and frequent. I had given up on finding them through deliberate means and became resigned that I would just have to wait for them to turn up. I am not sure if I blocked it out or just plain forgot, but they took a backseat to other more pressing and equally useless worries.The thankfully short heat wave that recently hit Los Angeles was a doozy. I had forgotten about the “Indian Summer” that usually hits this region in September. It was hot, hot, hot. I was heading out and decided to put on a weird Hawaiian shift dress that I had picked up in a consignment store a while back. It was on the list of things that, if not worn this season, was on the chopping block, headed home with the housekeeper or off to Goodwill. I decided to pair it with my red Converse Chucks, because I wanted to be comfortable and that sounded like a cute older-gal combo. When I went to put on the left sneaker there was an object lodged in the toe. Upon investigation, it turned out to be both of Mom’s rings, carefully swathed in fabric and then wrapped in plastic film. Eureka! A huge relief, but also a source of joy. Something I could celebrate with Mom. I looked to the heavens:“Mom. I’ve got them! Safe and sound. Yay! Woohoo!!! I don’t like champagne, but I will take a sip of it in your honor! “ I put them on and admired them as I looked at my hands. They are pretty pieces … a testament to her taste. “I do love you, Mama. I do love you.”The red Hawaiian dress has been relegated to the donation pile, which Maria Elena will inspect in the morning. In the end it’s just too weird, a half-mumu kind of a thing. I’m not there yet but when I’m ready to conceal from head to toe I am fixing’ to go full mumu.On we go …P.S.I spent four hours today in a tattoo parlor on a very iffy stretch of Glendale Boulevard. I wasn’t sure my car would be there when I came out. The place had been highly recommended, so I took a breath and rang the bell. Inside, it is really quite lovely, but I admit to wondering once or twice after my vehicle. After three hours of a treatment that felt like tiny army men were stabbing my brow bone with their bayonets, I have emerged with what promises to be some rather fetching eye fringe. I am told that they can change colors overnight, so I may awaken to find myself having gone full clown. But for now, another thing once lost had been found. Eyebrows. How about that?We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! 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