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.

I remember when Gila was born. A girl! Mom – Grandma Bourge – was so happy to finally be able to buy another pair of Mary Jane shoes, even if she had to send them to Detroit! And when their family moved back to Cleveland, the bonus was that we got to inherit all the beautiful hand-me-downs. 

That was too many lifetimes ago.