“Magenta” she says
As her faltering fingers flutter for the polish.
I stroke one layer on her crooked pinky and she sighs
As she strokes my hand with her unpolished thumb.
My precision is what she is amazed by.
But the amazement veers to
Bewilderment as I notice through the glass of her gleaming eyes
The wish that the trembling would cease
These frail hands that I hold were once capable of much more
than mine will ever be;
Scrubbing filth of mud and hatred out of her clothes and heart
While still holding on to her washcloth and faith.
These fragile hands that I hold are strong
Filled with memories and wisdom
Regret and forgiveness
That my precision will never be able to polish over