Tick Tock

Mother's hands.
She always took good care of her hands.
Nails perfectly filed.
Smoothed by Yardley's,
Protected
from

dirt
grime
hard work
stubborn cans

these hands of hers never did more than
she would let them.

Shit! she cried.
I broke a nail, she
complained.
(She was standing next to me
washing a pot at the sink
in my sister's kitchen,
caressing it clean in her
compulsive way)

Do you have scissors? she inquired of
everyone at the party
To trim my nail?

My dad produced something to clip off the broken
bit.

OUCH! She screamed! You hurt me!

Pouting, she turned to
me.

Don't you have scissors?

Clippers yes, mom. I have clippers,
and I produced them.

But I need scissors!

What for? Can't you use clippers?

No, she responded
flatly
smallishly.
I've never used them. Only
scissors

(I remember her nail scissors,
I know where they lie in her
bathroom above
the toilet,
I used them yesterday to snip a tag off
a gift she gave her granddaughter,
my child.)

Here mom, let me.
I take her hand, turn it over, find the split.
Sternly I say
Now don't move!

And I trim her broken nail
in the same way
I trim my daughters',
she looks up at me,
gratitude in her eyes for the first
time
of my life and

time

moves
on.