I give my mother pedicures as an act of love,
Together we dig through cuticle hardened by glue, paint and whatever the beautician buried in there beneath paint-the-town-red polish.
I don’t fret over the chipped nails from running up and down the stairs in service to us.
I am gentle.
My excavation is practised,
by age 8, near perfect
I know when to stop before I hit something tender
–I’m not like my father.
I know to let the cuts breathe before bathing them in polish remover soaked cotton
Even when it’s tough, I’m not abrasive.
I go over the same spot till it starts to yield,
She pores through gossip magazines, cutting out whatever the tailor will make next.
–Bottom lip tucked beneath teeth for focus as the scissors slice through
She sometimes falls asleep, and I carry on
If it will sting, I prepare her.
I know she wants the artificial nails still repainted in paint-the-town red.
I have reached for her hands before to do the same, but she pulled away-
not these.
They’re for cooking, cleaning, washing, they’re for us
It’s another sacrifice. I know.
