Eggs and Manicures

Lazily I awaken, the sounds of breakfast coming from the kitchen.  I stretch luxuriously, the satin pillowcase a silky contrast to soft cotton sheets.
"Always sleep with satin next to your face," she instructs.  "It helps keep the wrinkles away."
Maybe she's right about that; my pillowcases are all cotton, and fine lines are creeping around my face, make-up for my emotions, emphasizing my smiles and frowns.

Sizzling butter coats the pan as she cracks open brown eggs, making sure not to break the yolks.  Eggs at Grandma Rose’s house are always the dippy kind, served with hot toast soaked through with real butter. 

Eagerly, I poke at the sunny orb, encouraging the yolks to run across the plate as I gently follow their path with the toast.

The solid egg white I can do without, but Grandma coaxes me to join the clean-your-plate-club, and I take little bites, the promise of our next activity propelling me to finish.

With a reasonably clean plate in front of me, I look expectantly at my Grandma. 

Small bottles sit in front of me, sparkling, glossy, and waiting for my small fingers to close around the cool glass, making my choice.

Only now, as I sit in front of Abbey, letting her choose between pale pink with sparkles and pale pink without, do I understand my Grandma's courage in this moment.

Red.

Gorgeous, stoplight-inspired red.

"That's one of my favorites," she says, nodding in approval and taking the bottle from me without pause.

Watching Grandma shake the bottle, a tiny metal ball magically mixing the polish, I yearn for the day when red or pink or any rainbow shade will grace my fingers, glamorous exclamation points at the end of my arms.

But for today, I am the polisher, not the polishee, perhaps because Grandma knows my mother would prefer my fingers to come home without punctuation.

"Ok, honey, now remember, drag the brush against the bottle to get off the extra polish.  A little more..." her voice is patient, my concentration great.

"Good.  Now don't paint right up to the edge of the nail.  Leaving just a little bit of unpainted nail on the sides makes them look longer.  See?" Perhaps this is true, though it may have been a preemptive attempt to keep red fingernail polish from smearing onto her skin.

Even with her step-by-step guidance and unwavering hand perched atop a tissue, I can see the places where my hand-eye coordination fell short of my determination.

"Perfect!  Thank you so much!" she gushes.

Buoyed, I try to sneak a look at her hands, remembering the smudges on cuticles, the places the brush slipped.

But she is waving her fingers in the air, exaggerating the purse of her lips as she blows on the still-tacky polish.  In motion, they are beautiful, ten glittering gems fluttering through the sky.

Great-Grandma Rose and Abbey Rose

Your assignment for this week is to write about a memory of yourself WITH someone else.