I found it in her drawer. I entered her vacant bedroom, opened the top wooden drawer, where her makeup used to be, and a small brown pencil rolled out from the back. The sound reminded me of a bowling alley as the ball comes rolling down the rail beneath the floor. The ball would appear out from the dark and strike the other balls. So did the pencil against the front wooden panel. I picked it up, pulled open the clear plastic cap and then I remembered. Even in her old age she liked to wear makeup. On this one special occasion when I had come to visit her, she had asked me to draw in her eyebrows. I remember being a bit nervous, hesitating to apply the dark creamy pencil to her thin translucent skin. I remember the slightest pressure appeared far too dark and harsh. She looked at herself in the mirror, and without changing her expression said, “Det dah.” (“That’s fine.”) I’m sure it wasn’t how she would normally draw it herself, and was perhaps a bit surprised about it. She did not say. Instead she grabbed her keys and bible and lead me out the front door.