By Andrea Hall
As I lay here dying,
I look at my nails.
They aren’t painted.
Will my husband know what color I like?
I have a coupon in the kitchen
For a free salon visit for two.
Will my children remember me?
I would always get “cotton candy”
(Yeah, that’s the color).
As I lay here dying, it hit me:
Why didn’t I ever use the coupon
laying there on my kitchen table?
I could have taken a friend.
We could have laughed
And pampered ourselves.
But here I am, my cuticles a mess.
Smiling, I recall getting false nails
With all kinds of designs:
Flowers and swirls of lines
Going this way and that way,
With pinks and blues,
With a touch of orange.
The manicurist would hold my hand.
(I never let anybody get that close to me).
The girls back home in Louisiana would say,
“Guuurrrl, Ima ’bout to get my nails did.”
It was funny; it was nice–
No death looming over me.
I could take my time,
Put things off.
I look at my husband,
open my dry mouth and whisper
Ima ’bout to get my nails did.