(no subject)
She couldn't get up, so she sent him to get the nail polish. Pink, she said, gentle, light pink.
He went to the pharmacy. Nail polish, he said, and the curious girl behind the counter waved her skinny arm in some direction to his right. Tens of little tiny bottles, hundreds, maybe. Which...? He looked at the girl, the girl shrugged and looked away.
He picked one in the prettiest bottle. Light silver writing, in foreign letters, pretty black cap. Light pink. Gentle, soft. Like her.
He brought it back and she smiled, the way only she could, and her daughter painted her nails, touched her warm, gentle hands, painted her nails and blew on them, as if it would dry them faster, blew on them.
I wish I could have done that for her.
She looked at her newly painted nails and said, no, too bright, it's not me, you can't ever get anything right, to him, reproachingly, jokingly.
I know, he said, I can't ever get nail polish right, he said, smiling. He's manly, he's a captail, and picking up the nail polish, the hair colour, the dress -- which she's been unable to do for years -- became a perpetual family joke between them, something he tried, but could never get quite right.
The professor came by to look at her, examined her carefully, and said, oh, I see you've got yourself a manicure. Yes I did, she said, smiling, in pain, but smiling, and stretched out her hand, her arthritic hand, as far as she could. Yes I did, she said, pleased that a man noticed.
It's the perfect colour, the professor said. Bright, like you.
She smiled. The professor left.
It's just like me, she said. Bright, he said. They smiled.
Her little fingers had the most perfect little pink nails, when she lay in the coffin. Very bright, like her. Very gentle, like her. Very soft, like her. Very her.
She was a Woman, until the very end.
He went to the pharmacy. Nail polish, he said, and the curious girl behind the counter waved her skinny arm in some direction to his right. Tens of little tiny bottles, hundreds, maybe. Which...? He looked at the girl, the girl shrugged and looked away.
He picked one in the prettiest bottle. Light silver writing, in foreign letters, pretty black cap. Light pink. Gentle, soft. Like her.
He brought it back and she smiled, the way only she could, and her daughter painted her nails, touched her warm, gentle hands, painted her nails and blew on them, as if it would dry them faster, blew on them.
I wish I could have done that for her.
She looked at her newly painted nails and said, no, too bright, it's not me, you can't ever get anything right, to him, reproachingly, jokingly.
I know, he said, I can't ever get nail polish right, he said, smiling. He's manly, he's a captail, and picking up the nail polish, the hair colour, the dress -- which she's been unable to do for years -- became a perpetual family joke between them, something he tried, but could never get quite right.
The professor came by to look at her, examined her carefully, and said, oh, I see you've got yourself a manicure. Yes I did, she said, smiling, in pain, but smiling, and stretched out her hand, her arthritic hand, as far as she could. Yes I did, she said, pleased that a man noticed.
It's the perfect colour, the professor said. Bright, like you.
She smiled. The professor left.
It's just like me, she said. Bright, he said. They smiled.
Her little fingers had the most perfect little pink nails, when she lay in the coffin. Very bright, like her. Very gentle, like her. Very soft, like her. Very her.
She was a Woman, until the very end.