Supercilium Sketch

She draws herself each day. I have watched the morning routine for the past week. Eyebrow pencil in hand, she diagrams and details, completing the illusion. The outer arches of her eyebrows, culled by the cumulative effects of chemotherapy, have faded. "Does it look like a smudge?" she frowns, while spreading the pigmented plaster. "Not at all," I palter...smiling...moving towards her reflection in the mirror.

Earlier this evening, I tried to draw her. A #2 pencil pawed at the graph paper completing another illusion. My rustic rendition bore some resemblance. The eyebrows--ah, those I drafted last...slow deliberate etchings, each line a graphite incantation shrieking across the page...hoping to awaken her hibernating follicles.