Maybe once a month she clipped her nails, and a few times I noticed the little white scars or bruises on them, alwaysever edging toward bloodless crescents, diminished without the circulation, gone with a clip. And down they might spiral like the wrinkles on her knuckles or the ripples in her finger prints, like my tongue, as it often did, passing over them, and I saw her hand and mind connecting in tightened eye lids and a bitten lip, back to her hand with knuckles bending and stretching those wrinkles in a wrenching grip.
One of TWO members which pleased us both, that scratched out figures and helped lay out our lives. The nails renewed … for as long as they did. For much else I can’t ask.