There are two things that I notice when I look down at my hands.
The first is how
closely they resemble my mother’s. I never noticed that as much as I have since
October 7 because since that fateful day I simply cannot bring myself to polish
my nails. My mother never polished hers.
You have to know
me to appreciate just how meaningful and significant a change it is. Some
things are sacrosanct, and for me, this is one of them.
Since I was a very
young teen (and that’s been over three score) and first discovered the
intoxicating smell of fresh polish, except for a few hours here or there, my
natural nails have not seen the light of day.
Neat hands and
smooth, filed, and polished nails are the finishing touch to any outfit. If I’m
lucky enough to get a professional manicure, it is always French (the ones with
the natural-looking white tips), though I have been known to (gasp) polish them
myself in a shade of very pale pink or mauve.
That may or may
not have meant that I made hubby wait before starting the car on our way to a
simcha so I could finish polishing one hand after I had already put on my seat
belt. I have made him pull over to the side (at a STOP sign) so I could finish
the second hand, while sticking my first one out the window in hopes the wind
would help them dry faster. I have gingerly picked up the matches to light my
Shabbos candles being ever-so-careful not to smudge my still-wet nails because
there is no more important task to complete before the setting of the sun on a
hectic Friday afternoon than this ultimate grooming touch.
And yet, here I am,
15 months later, and I still cannot bring myself to do it.
I’m as vain as
they come. I will not leave my bedroom without being dressed, coiffed, and
always with my makeup on. And as someone who is still wearing the orange
bracelet (a very thin version because I’m all for celebrating with jewelry from
the days of Gush Katif), not wearing polish is in a very real sense a reminder
that I am different. I have to be. And I must keep reminding myself in ways
both large and small. (Please note that I even went to a grandchild’s wedding
with those naked nails.) I’ll be standing in line for a gold star for that
alone.
Our good deeds are
dedicated to the swift release of our hostages, and we are ever-mindful of the
psychological and emotional toll all of this has had on so many whose lives
will never be the same. We have all added our additional prayers for the
protection of our soldiers and our people and for the quick recovery of the
many, many wounded.
We scan the news
(or someone’s version of it) and count the “just” and the “only” casualties
that simply break our hearts, and we listen for the silly promises from
political pundits who are more interested in our votes than in our mission –
and we connect to our family and friends who truly are on the front lines going
on with their daily lives and I don’t know how. We make promises both real and
unreal and still feel so empty yet so vulnerable.
We hold our
breath…and are buoyed by the incredible acts of unity and kindness that are
extended from one heart to another, yet most of us are not worried about what
color we should wear to the funeral of a loved one.
And so we move on.
I am waiting for
the miracles of the Chanukah season to continue – and am ever present to the
news, which keeps us guessing by the instant.
Something happened
to significantly impact my life, and I cannot cover it. As challenging as it is
to not wear the polish I so deeply crave, for right now, the act of polishing
my nails seems abhorrent.
I’m tired of
seeing the way my hands look right now.
I’m even more
tired thinking about the reason behind it.
