Once every week,

always the night before school started, a Sunday,

she would line them up like toy soldiers

and brandish the sharp little cutters

too small for her arthritic knuckles.

 

The finger on her left hand where her wedding ring was permanently stuck

(and no longer necessary)

was bent like a timeworn back that hates to straighten

when she waved for them to stand still and stay upright

until she could examine the assemblage of dirt.

 

They hoped for just the right amount of filth

underneath their nails:

too much meant they hadn’t washed;

not enough meant they needed to work harder.

 

And then with a whoosh, her heavy fingers would zip through

ten

twenty

thirty

forty

fifty

sixty seventy eighty extremities

all of different shapes and sizes

and with similar amounts of loam,

determining them to be somewhat clean

and agreeably punctilious.

 

When they were done,

one by one she would look them in the eyes

and give their rears a push

that sent them flying towards the bath

to wash the country off their bodies

until it started to collect again,

as soon as they got out.

 

The woman with the bent fingers—

my grandmother—

would then gather her thoughts and sit down for five minutes

to do her own nails with a smile on her face,

examining the thick raised veins and ridges of callous

until it was time to keep on with the chores

and put the clippers away.