Late one night walking home alone I felt a long pink finger nail touch the pad of my thumb finger and it was my own and somehow
I thought to my grandma
how many bottles of pink nail polish collected in that far from antique white plastic container and at visits the rummaging I would do inspecting each color and she taught me how to paint each nail one on the left, one in the center, one on the right, for each nail
and when they were drying she would tell me to blow I would sit so tall and proud for not having smudged them
Such a childish thing and yet how warmly I remember this when she died I could have all of her nail polishes
Wow, it has been a long time since I wrote for Hello Poetry. I started writing on this website as the only outlet for an awkward teenaged girl who was the only one in her classes enjoying poetry. Looking back, the content I was putting on the site wasn’t very good, but I loved the community here. So much has changed since then and I think as you get older you come to realize less is more when it comes to poetry. (With amount of words used at least). It will sometimes be months since I’ve written anything, but I wrote this one late a night or two ago, recalling this memory of my grandma. When she died, I lost a huge mother figure in my life. My own mother was not the type to paint nails.