The mother of my mother, Irene Abigail, was a very slight and slightly terrifying woman of French descent.

She was like a porcelain doll, if you can imagine one forged in tempered steel.

I have early memories of her sitting in a darkened room with her back to me, beside a mahogany Queen Anne style dressing table.

Her framed mirror reflected indirect light from the hallway, casting shadows and tricks across her petite features.

Sometimes, when I see someone illuminated only by their screen, perhaps while taking a selfie in low light, I flash back to that doorway, and I see my grandmother putting on her face.

She was just five-foot tall in heels, but she made herself seem bigger, sometimes even dangerous, by slowing her voice almost to a stop and boring her intense pale-grey eyes throug

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