The brush stayed with me.
She had meant to look at them and changed her mind.
It was ivory, old enough for the handle to be smooth where her fingers had held it for decades.
I had seen it on Maribel’s dresser every time we visited, resting beside a little glass dish of pearl earrings and a framed photo of Mason with two missing front teeth.
That morning, it was tucked beneath a folded towel in the bathroom sink.
Not hidden well.
Hidden in a hurry.
I had seen it on Maribel’s dresser.
A few silver strands still clung to the bristles.
