Summer Nails and Morning Bread

It was a morning cupped in sunlight,
7:30 drifting lazy through the summer break.
I opened my eyes to the hush of a house not yet awake,
and nudged my little sister — come quick! —
to the kitchen balcony, where a garbage truck
grumbled and swallowed yesterday’s crumbs.

Inside, the TV flickered: Inspector Gadget on KidsCo,
sweet Strawberry Shortcake on Minimax —
our secret kingdom before the grown-ups stirred.
Then Mama’s voice, warm as the milk she stirred,
calling us to the table outside —
cheesebread torn in soft halves, sausage steaming,
our laughter caught by the summer air.

Papa kissed us and left for work,
his footsteps trailing into the hum of the day.
And Mama, cross-legged on the balcony chair,
brush in hand, painting her nails a cherry red.
I watched her hands turn plain mornings
into something bright and grown.

I said, Mama, make mine too — I’m big now.
She laughed, sunlight caught in her hair,
and said, Alright, my big girl.
So she brushed my small nails
with real grown-up gel —
my first secret of womanhood.

We sat side by side waiting for the wind
to dry our red-tipped dreams,
radio playing old songs,
our voices braided with the music,
laughing, singing, loving a morning
too simple to forget —
a summer where I was eight,
where everything smelled of milk and polish,
and the whole world
was warm enough to grow up in,
one nail at a time.

by Onnaya