I bought it in St. Augustine, Florida on Father's Day. I specifically chose Sunday for that excursion to stem the flow of any unhappy thoughts that could spoil our vacation. We would be too busy to be unhappy for even a moment.
I spoiled us. I bought us ice cream, candy and souvenirs, including the nail polish I later applied so carefully. It was only a salmon color indoors - outdoors it turned a bright shade of fuchsia. We got it at a store called 'Del Sol' (of the sun, in case you didn't get that). Everything in the store lit up or changed color in sunlight. They had UV lights in the store that you could hold things under to see what they'd look like outside. Sure enough, as soon as we set foot outside the little shop, the polish turned fuchsia. We couldn't wait to paint our nails with it, then set foot on the sandy beach and watch our toes change color. We painted them that night.
I think a couple days on the beach overdosed my polish - although Alivia's was still turning purple, perhaps because her feet were pretty much constantly in the water - but my toes had gone back to staying pinkish even outside. I took this picture one day, bored as I lounged by the pool, my little fish splashing around with boundless energy.
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| Pink toes |
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| Little fish |
By then she had chewed the polish off her fingernails. She always did, because she couldn't help biting her nails, especially when she was nervous, and this almost always ended in her scraping off any polish present with her teeth. Actually, the nail biting itself was a habit we shared, and part of the reason I didn't paint my own nails. We used to remind each other when we saw each other biting - don't bite your nails! But I didn't say anything when I noticed the missing polish... we were on vacation, it wasn't the time to worry about such inconsequential things, we were having the time of our lives.
Every day for the past five months, when I've looked down at my toes, I've seen those flecks of pink paint, gradually becoming less and less. When I've trimmed my nails, some of it has come off. Once or twice, as the nails grew out, I thought about taking it off and repainting them... and then thought twice. I wasn't taking it off, because it reminded me of the happy memory of sitting there with my princess, painting our nails. I put it on when we were together. I didn't want to take it off while we were apart.
Now, only the tiniest traces of paint remain on my big toes. If I cut my nails again every trace of it will probably vanish.
It makes me sad. I know, silly, right? Silly that I even got sentimental about not wanting to take it off, and walked around with half-painted toes all summer. Even sillier that now that it's almost gone, and knowing I won't soon be together with the princess whose toes I painted with mine, I still can't take it off. Sillier that I'll probably cry when I'm forced to clip my nails again and the last little bit is gone.
But I can't, and I will.
What I wouldn't give to go back to the day I put it on, when everything was happy and carefree, before crisis, before things got so ugly and complicated. What I wouldn't give to go back and do it all again, knowing what I know now. But we don't get to go back, do we? We only get one shot. We do the best we can with it. We try, as I tried, to do what we think is right. Sometimes we fail. Sometimes we fall short. Sometimes we get our hearts broken.
And when that happens... maybe it isn't so silly to hold onto the happy memories brought on by something as small and seemingly insignificant as a couple flecks of no-longer color changing nail polish.
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