Someone to Hold Your Hand

Painting by Claude Bernard

The day after I was diagnosed with prostate cancer, I did something strange.

I got a manicure — the first I’d had since I was a boy in my Aunt Shirley’s beauty shop.

Leaving our ailing beagle resting at home, I stopped by the public library to renew my card, borrowing a Harlan Corben mystery and buying a handful of magazines — Esquire, AD, Veranda — for a dime each.

Then I went to Walmart to pick up some fresh bread for the birds and squirrels at our “feeding oak.” 

I looked around at all the people gliding through the store, many of whom seemed only half alive, and thought about all the times I’ve only been half-alive too.

But now, at this moment, I was sharply aware of being alive. The consciousness of your own mortality can do that for you.

Passing the nail salon, I thought of all the times I had idly considered getting a manicure, but rejected the notion as being silly. I didn’t even know what one cost.

I strolled in.

Sixteen dollars.

Not too bad.

Why not?

A middle-aged Asian fellow dropped my hands into a bowl to soak, firmly, efficiently. Cuticle trimming, filing, buffing, all pleasant and relaxing.

My hands haven’t looked so good since some previous century.