Polish

Maria, from Mallorca, was young and a stranger on these shores. She spoke only Mallorquin and some Spanish. She fell ill from a virulent infection. Doctors asked questions. Maria could not answer. There seemed little hope. My mother stayed with Maria, tended to her and whispered kind words as Maria drifted in and out of consciousness. My mother painted Maria’s fingernails bright red. Maria would awaken, see the red, then drift again into fevered sleep. When the fever broke, Maria didn’t know where she was or what had befallen her, but Maria marveled at the bright polish on her fingers.