I make no apologies for re-posting what follows. I originally wrote it when my mother was diagnosed with cancer for the second time (she had recovered from cervical cancer twenty years previously) and read it, at the request of my brother and sisters, at her funeral. Last Sunday was the anniversary of her death.
Scarlet Nails
I recently read that red nail polish is the height of fashion once more. The first lipstick I ever owned was red and made me feel so grown up and vaguely wicked.
The other day while shopping for cornflakes and bread in my local supermarket, I could not resist stopping to look at the make-up and those tantalising lipstick testers. Twenty minutes later my wrist was covered with little stripes of colour and I had somehow talked myself into buying a new lipstick and a new nail varnish. I thought I could save the guilt feelings spending money on me always causes, to wallow in later when I had a spare moment.
Later that night, I carefully applied the scarlet paint to my non-to elegant nails. With each brush stroke the sense of a past revisited became stronger. An unnamed emotion began to blossom and grow until finally, it triggered tears.
Closing my eyes, I allowed myself to find, a little girl watching her mother painting her nails. That child knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. Her mammy's hair was so long and deep, dark red. Her clothes, so elegant and fashionable. She never left the house without perfect make-up and manicure. The little girl wanted more than anything to be like her.
She was not a mother you could hug. Who would want to be responsible for creasing or dirtying those wonderful clothes? She was not a mother the child saw very often; her home was with her grandparents. But that little girl, me, I, loved her. Admired her. And wanted to be close to her whenever I could.
She still dresses with care. In her early sixties, mammy would still never leave the house without make-up. Her nails are still painted in brilliant colours. I still don't see her very often.
I can't stop the tears now. Ruining my manicure. Scarlet nails reminding me that mammy is dying.. That cancer is devouring her life. In a year she will have moved into the past.
Her and her scarlet nails.
.
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