Cuticle

I'm reminded of how I used to bite my nails. Mother put a stop to that. Put some sort of solution on them so when they went in my mouth it was sour, like turpentine, maybe that's what it was.

She would push the cuticles back. I would see my nails as little slivers, equal parts pink and white. Then with the pushing back of that skin suddenly the pink would grow. Like the scrunching down of a turtleneck, revealing what was underneath all along. And it hurt.

But it isn't skin. It's wax. It grows to protect and then we push it back. And it hurts when we push it back, it hurts. As if to say stop, stop what it is that you're doing. I have to protect these nails. Let me protect them. Let me do my job.

I noted my father's nails. Cracked, yes, but large. And that was the difference between boys and men. Large hands, large nails, somehow it all made sense. I can deal fine with the pain now, I wouldn't even call it that. So here I sit, the grime of this carpet floor undoing what my shower's done. The turpentine is gone, the clips miss the bin, the wax is pushed and trimmed. Revealing these things, these things made for digging into oranges, scratching my scalp, running along the inseam of your palm.