The color she picks is metallic purple. It reminds me of a skirt I used to wear to the club-of-the-week before I became legal.
As she takes in every colorful detail of her favorite superhero cartoon, I paint her tiny fingernails more carefully than I’ve ever painted my own. I don’t tell her that one day, she might incur ridicule, envy, or a combination of the two simply for being a beautiful girl with bold nails. I don’t tell her that some pervy guy might mistake her polish as an invitation for sex. I don’t tell her of the greedy fingers that might attempt to abscond with her flowering soul and auction it off to the best-paying bidder. Most of all, I don’t tell her about society’s nasty underbelly, and how it creeps and waits to strike during the budding of juvenescence. Hiss.
She thanks me as I finish painting. Her eyes never leave the TV screen, so I know she doesn’t see.
I see this girl as stranger with my memories.
Who were you?
Appreciate the reads — indeed I do.