My maternal grandmother died when I was 10 years old.
Dorothy’s nails were always perfectly manicured — always a shade of some variation of red.
Always shaped perfectly, always long, as if she never did a hard thing in her life with her hands.
Truth is, she did all the hard things.
She lost a husband and raised her three children herself, taught young minds… I imagine the woman only wanted to stop once in a while.
Perhaps that’s what the nails were perfectly manicured for.
She wore those nails like a badge of honor– that she never had those hard things happen — like she never cried — never flinched.
Never wanted for anything.
But she did.
She fought every day: To never chip a nail.