Ode to Red Nails

I

Like my mother before me,

and her mother before her,

I cover my nails in red varnish.

Abuela Modesta liked them long, filed into a pointy V like Marilyn Monroe,

whom she named my mom after, Norma Jean became Norma José after her first scream

on December third, nineteen forty-six in Tacarigua, Venezuela.

II

Mami, you liked to paint your own turning down a fancy outing to a salon in New York City.

"Get pampered," I had said.

No.

You nestled on a corner of my faded blue couch. Polish, cuticle cutter, remover, file.

Painted right pinky,

right middle finger,

left thumb,

left pinky,

stopped to read me some Mario Benedetti knowing which one was painted twice which one had topcoat.

Flawless.

You said your nails stopped growing

with age. You couldn't match abuela. They were square and short, like mine.

III

Now, it's the middle of winter in Tribeca, when she’s done, the nail technician says: “pretty color.”

I give her a crooked smile

glance down at my fresh nails

mouth to the air: te gustan, mami?

and sit still for them and my tears to dry.