Manicure

He wanted to do my nails. He had picked out an electric blue at the store we were in together and asked for the polish. He knew from our already expansive collection the benefits of nail enamel as paint. I asked if he wanted me to put it on myself. He said yes. When I had arrived he said he liked a similar color I had on; had taken a chance he might not like it.

He had asked before, though we were always so pressed for time it was too difficult to have that moment and get to where we wanted to go in time for the next hour when our time would be over. This time, he asked, and I was happy to be able to oblige. It may or may not be the last time. Not because there won't be an opportunity; he's just at the age where one never knows what he might want to do, especially if he might not think it's up to an image he's decided to emulate for the day, experimenting with many as his identity as an older boy evolves.

He came over to where I was and took his first shot; I helped by coaching a little on technique. He had asked me before during an earlier trip if I would do his: the kind of clearcoat he saw sports celebrities wearing in the news during press conferences. That was fun, too. Now it was his turn; we had time. His accomplishment was almost as pride producing as the model vehicles we had created together to date, with more planned. They were his creation, on me, to remember him by every day for as long as it would last. He asked me to take the rest to our place, for future manicures or other creations that polish did a better job of than other paints.

He said words in combinations he'd not said before, unsolicited, out of the blue; no one could ask or wish for sweeter expressions.

I wonder what he will remember or what will stand out when he thinks back on moments like these when asking to do my nails will no longer be a first choice activity. There are so many photos I can't look at now from earlier times, and lately there aren't enough photos for all of the precious moments actually seen. Like me, he doesn't like to pose for pictures nearly as much as when he was smaller, and I have to put the camera away when he objects.

It may not be the last manicure, though many moments are irreplaceable. The homework that's actually fun that he saves for us to do together; the decks are cleared until it's finished, and all finished projects and accomplishments are a celebration, as is being together. Every day is a special occasion and lately he puts it into words out of nowhere much better than I can. It's one of his gifts. He's managed to know his worth, or be able to express it without coming across as arrogant or overly confident. He just knows or seems to know he's validated, though it's as fragile as a day of bad weather that makes a triumphant day seem far in the distance.

I hope I'm wrong; the effects last a lifetime from what we've been through together that have crept into the subconscious and surface again when shared bliss seems too far away or inaccessible when the world isn't so friendly and there's no one who understands within reach. The peace is missing when in those moments when we're apart it isn't known when those feelings come and if he would know what he could do, especially when there's less time to think, and something must be done. Those precious little moments are the glue that binds the thought process that leads to security and an ability to act. The uncertainty is an unannounced storm with an undetermined date, with an unknown inventory of survival supplies or training. There can be no real peace for a child in such an existence.