Well polished memory

I've mentioned my grandmother a few times here before. I thought this one post in particular was from just a few months ago, until I had to peruse all the way back to June of last year to find it. (I also thought the photos that will appear in this post were taken less than four months ago.) Over the past year or so I guess we have learned a bit more about dementia, but I cannot honestly say I understand it any better. As my grandmother's capacity for holding memories grows smaller, the tighter I feel myself cling to the memories of her that I have - as if somehow I am keeping them for both of us. 

We sat one morning talking about nothing in particular, most likely the weather. She commented that her nails needed to be touched up. I leapt out of my seat, happy for the opportunity to feel useful, and went to look for the nail polish.

She asked me if I wore nail polish, and I answered that it had been a very long time since I had. I have many memories of my grandmother giving me some fine manicures when I was little, so I asked her if she wanted to paint my nails.

Her hand was steadier than I expected, but she mentioned that she was having some trouble seeing well. I just kept telling her they looked fine...

even if they didn't...

...it was no worse than I would have done myself. My plan may have been to have this small moment and then quickly wipe it away with a cotton ball when I got home, but I didn't. I couldn't because looking at my nails made me smile. I had a new memory of the two of us, that tucked in so nicely with the lifetime of other memories I have of us together.