My Grandma’s Nail Polish Neva Illica ’28 An elderly woman sat next to me, On the bus yesterday, And usually I try not to stare, But I let my eye wander just this once, Because maybe it was a sign, That her deep maroon nail polish, Was perfectly complimenting her, Popping veins, That were not quite blue, But not quite green, Maybe it was a sign, Because the musical notes hidden in your innocent voice, Had started to feel distant and muffled in my mind, And that same night I was five years old again, Watching you paint over your nails in awe, With that same velvety rich crimson red, Maybe it was a sign, Because you hadn’t showed up, in my dreams in a while, and that same night, I was five years old again, 34
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