I can still hear french-tipped fingernails
clickety-click clicking on the piano keys,
playing the low notes of “Heart and Soul”
while I tentatively played the melody.
I remember watching the rounded ends
dutifully separating the completed check
from the rest of the book,
how long her hand looked
as she held it out to me.
I still laugh when I tell the story
of when one acrylic fell off
in the grape leaves,
but she ended up
picking the offending roll-up
from the platter anyway.
I can hear the shout
“Tell ’em what you want!”
from the kitchen, her bright red nails
cupped around her mouth
to amplify her voice.
I remember their hands so vividly —
their manicures and full sets
adding a feminine curve
to their rougher edges.