Pretty Nails

Geneva sits in front of me and I take her hands in mine

to examine the work set in front of me.
Latex gloves hide my blue, purple and black painted fingernails.

Her fingernails are chipped, and the pale coral paint

appears to have faded into her puffy hands.

I remove the polish from Geneva’s nails, finger by finger.

Decaying enamel is revealed with each swipe

of an acetone-soaked cotton ball.

The dingy yellow nails are crooked, with strange bumps

that I can still identify through my gloved protection.

I clean underneath each overgrown nail, and clumps of unknown

matter fall from the tool I use.  By the time I am finished,

yellow and brown shades of color clutter the towel

I have placed underneath her hands to catch the globs

that have accumulated since her last visit.

Her nails are long and jagged; I file relentlessly

until there is a noticeable pile of nail dust gathered on the towel.

I do my best to not wince when Geneva lets out a sigh

and the particles fly up into the air, inevitably inhaled.

I line up the varying shades of pink and red, and I watch her

pick up each bottle and hold it next to her finger.

This is the one, she said, pushing a glittery purple polish

toward me that I had slipped into the mix.

I instantly sit up straighter and coat her nails in this brilliant color.

Each stroke becomes more and more difficult,

her shaking hands challenging my own steady one.

I finish the last nail, and remind her that she must be careful

not to smudge my handiwork.  Geneva winks at me

and waves both of her hands in the air, carelessly shouting,

Oh! This is going to get me a rich boyfriend!

She forgets why she is sitting in this room,

so I explain once again that today is manicure day.

I smile to myself and direct her to her room.