In the soft light

After spinach pie

and mashed potato,

with the rain echoing

on the corrugated roof,

and Dad somewhere

between here and Adelaide,

Mum sits at the kitchen table

with a small jar of red nail polish.

I watch as she files her nails

to a smooth round tip.

Delicate veins

thread along the back of her hands.

The fumes make my eyes water

as Mum applies a second coat

to the nails of her left hand

even though

she hasn’t touched the ones

on her right.

She carefully blows the polish dry,

then hands me the jar

and extends her right hand.

I dip the brush into the polish

and apply a thin smear

to her little finger.

We don’t speak

all my effort focused on her nails,

red and glowing,

in the soft light of the evening.