Am I still beautiful?

Her handshakes as it weakly grasps the tube of lipstick, holding it between her fingers like a precious diamond. Her hand still unsteady, she lifts it up to her lips and smears a thin but even layer over her thin lips. I watch her, mesmerized, at her pale skin and prominent bones. I do not dare cry. Not now. I can't. She studies her face in the mirror. Inspecting the red mess, smiling a little.
"Look." She wheezes. "Am I still beautiful?"
I open my mouth to say, "Yes," but I find that I can't. All I can do is gape at her, taking her in; as if this is the first time I've ever seen her. Her skin used to be tan. It used to be clear and smooth and blemish-free. She could have been a model. She should've. But three years of hospital visits and chemotherapy have taken their toll on her appearance. Now, her skin is pale, blotchy and bruised and tinted with yellow. That ugly skin stretches over her prominent bones, which now jut out unnaturally. I cringe at the remembrance of her once slender, curvy, figure, now reduced to a pile of skin and bones. Her hair used to be long. It used to be like silk, with the color of dried wheat warmed by the summer sun. Now, it was gone. Her eyes used to be deep indigo. Now, they were a watery mess of pale blue.
"Well?" She croaks, impatiently.
Men used to swoon over her. Woman envied her.
Tears fall down her face, now. She turns away, wiping the lipstick from her lips, meaning to look angry and ferocious, but instead turning out weak and childish.
My throat tightens, and I swallow, hard, trying to hold it down. I reach over to my beautiful, talented sister. My hands easy close over hers. I look her in the eyes. I choke, trying not to cry, visioning all the time we spent together. She was supposed to break hearts. She was supposed to be in movies, be famous. We all were sure that one day her name would go down in history. Now, the only place her name would be printed would be the obituary.
"Yes." I manage to say, wrapping her frail body in my arms and holding her close to me, trying not to hurt her. Her tears wet my shoulder.
The next day, she was gone. She left me, left this hospital, left this world to be somewhere else. I imagined her somewhere bright. I could hear her laugh. I could see her smile.
Her funeral was huge. People came, people went. People cried, people smiled, people talked. But I was gone. In my mind, I could see her. That's all that mattered. That was all that was left to hold on to, without that beautiful smiling blonde angel.
Her body in the casket was cold. Unfeeling. I felt tears slide down my cheeks, buckets and gallons. I've never cried so hard in my life. Her eyes, blue, stared at me innocently while I continued to cry. Even dead. Even cold. Even without breath. It was still clear. Her question still rang in my mind. I took a deep breath. I wiped the tears. I looked into her face. And I could still see it.
"Yes."