Dreaming of candy pink earrings

It is evening. I am five or six years old. I am in the bathroom with my mother, she at the sink, me sitting cross-legged on top of the carpeted toilet seat cover. Our bathroom has the most fabulous '70s wallpaper: giant purple poppies (or anemones?), white daisies and bright green ferns.

I am watching her "put her face on". She is getting ready to go to a party with my dad, wearing a pink satin tunic that she sewed herself, two rows of silver sequins adorning the keyhole neck and the cuff of each 3/4 sleeve. Her frosted hair is pulled back from her forehead with a tortoise barrette, the ends are straight with a flip. She looks so glamorous and pretty, even without the makeup, and I am in awe as I watch her apply powder, blush, eyeshadow. Her eyeliner is in a red plastic pencil that requires a twist, and it doubles as an eyebrow pencil. Mascara, lipstick for her, less lipstick for me. A spritz of Joy perfume for her, much less for me, on my wrist.

I am holding her earrings, candy pink squares that dangle from long silver sticks. They almost touch my shoulders when I try them on and they have always fascinated me. They are one of the items I covet most in her jewelry box, even more than the iridescent green crystal earrings, which are like shiny fairy moss, or the chunky smoky quartz ring, which barely fits my thumb and I'm always tempted to lick, certain it would taste like the root beer barrel candies that I don't really like anyway.

The babysitter is here. She is very pretty and she gets me into my pajamas soon after they leave for the party. She lets me brush her hair, which is dark brown and really, really long. It's time for bed, and I fall asleep smelling the perfume on my wrist, dreaming of candy pink earrings that dust my shoulders like magic.

{all photos from Etsy, click on the earrings to get to their respective shop}