Your breath was thick with the smoke from your cigarette and the spearmint gum you chewed to cover it up. You’d left the quaint shop in my command while you took your break, which you claimed was for your aching body but was really to light up a Camel on the back stoop. 

While you were gone, I did as much of the hard work as I could, knowing you would feel guilty about not being able to do it yourself. I heaved the heavy boxes of brand-new flannels, jeans, and sweaters up the rickety old spiral staircase that creaked with every step. I hung handbags on the hardest-to-reach shelves. I programmed new items into the cash register and fixed its broken settings, which you later assumed had repaired themselves. Smelling your smoky, minty aura draw nearer, I quickly tucked away the burns I’d acquired from hastily steaming new items to save your shoulders. You wouldn’t let me do that job again if you knew I’d hurt myself. 

Strolling into the boutique, you called out my name, drawing out the last vowel in your emphysemic, sing-song way. You’d tell me to stop working so hard and play dress up with you instead. Bedazzled flare jeans with belt buckles heavy enough to pull my pants down, gargantuan jewelry, and hats that eclipsed the sun. You’d choose the most outlandish outfits I would never wear, yet I looked stunning every time. You said it was because I was “just lovely,” but really it was because of your impeccable eye. 

You could always find the prettiest clothes and the kindest words for anyone who came shopping. You could always find the perfect clothes and motherly words for me. But somehow, you couldn’t find the three kinds of cancer preying on your broken body until it was too late.