The Lesson

When I paint my nails
I think of my mom.
She didn’t teach me much–
God knows her kitchen was off limits.
But she taught me to do my nails.
One day I saw her sitting at her
cherrywood makeup table
with its lift-up top
that hid mysterious lotions,
potions and powders.
She didn’t shoo me away
so I cautiously watched,
as with fingers spread-eagled
on the table she spoke these words:
“You keep your hand steady and
dip the brush into the polish like so,

wiping off most of it
so it doesn’t smear.
Then you brush real easy
from the cuticle to the tip,
starting in the center.
You always want to finish real
soft, like a feather.
There… see?”

nail polish 2


About boomergirl47

Retired from the University of South Florida. Love reading, writing, hiking, nature, music, birding, puttering around the house and yard.
This entry was posted in beauty, emotions, human interest, love, mother, nostalgia, poetry, relationships, Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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