She's ninety and it's hard for her to see. Glaucoma has made her world blurry and the only way she can look at her gossip magazines is with a lighted magnifying glass. The glass can't help her to read though, those days are over.
Her nails bother her and the kids joke that she shouldn't let me near them - I cut everything too short. But she does want me near them and she asks if I will trim them for her. I'm nervous about this, the last thing I want to do is injure her and I don't have my reading glasses with me. I'm at the stage where I can still read my watch and a menu without glasses, but I won't sign a contract without them and I probably shouldn't pull out splinters or go after eyelashes unless they're on. I really should start to carry them with me.
Glasses or no, she wants me to help her, and I can't say no. I pick up her cosmetics bag and find her nail trimmer and nail file. "Do I have an emery board?" she asks doubtfully. Yes, sweetie, I've got it.
I gently pick up one hand and cut the end of the nail, careful not too cut it too short. She tests the length against another finger, then her cheek. "That's perfect." Carefully, slowly, I cut and file the rest of them.
Together we examine the polish and decide her nail color is still pretty - no need to repaint. She feels all of her fingertips one by one and thanks me in a more heartfelt manner than I deserve. This chokes me up a little. Small pleasures. Small gifts. Little things that matter.
At the airport, I am overcome with the same feeling I always get when I leave her. What if this is the last time we see each other? Have I made her feel loved enough? Does she know how much she matters to us?
Cassandre starts to tear up at the airport, looking at a carved stone heart "made in Utah." She wants it to remind her of this trip. To remind her of her great-grandmother. I remind her that she'll be back next month, she'll see her again soon. She nods solemnly and asks me again to please buy her the necklace. She promises to pay me back. (Who could ask for the money?)
At home Cassandre picks up the ancient candlesticks my grandfather sent to my grandmother from England right before he was shot down and killed over Germany in WWII. I am responsible for taking care of these precious memories, but I have not washed them lately and they are tarnished and dirty. Cassandre wants to clean them and together we take them apart, piece by loving piece. We wash and dry each one, noting where the silversmith has encoded "A" "B" "C" and "5" "6" "7" so we know exactly which part goes back where. Soap and water make good progress, but not enough. We buy some polish to bring the shine back.
It makes us feel connected to do this work. Hands on labor to restore some dignity to something so precious. We don't try to make it perfect, just better.
Bleh, this is starting to get concerning.
My leg badly needs a stretch.
Wow, the stickers in Woodside are so targeted.
We're looking for Bonds' barco-lounger.
I'm still cold from last week.
Now that's a show.
It's time again for Not So Silent Night.
Still feeling fluish and lame. I'm skipping 3 different holiday parties tonight. I'm starting to feel like an old man.
It's been almost 5 years since we moved out of San Mateo. Wow.
