A Morning for Red Nails

It was a soft, honeyed morning around 7:30 — summer break, the kind that tasted of freedom and warm milk. I blinked awake to sunlight spilling across my pillow, tugged at my little sister’s arm, whispering for her to hurry to the kitchen balcony. From there, we watched the big garbage truck heave away bags of yesterday, fascinated by its noisy belly and the men tossing trash like a secret show just for us.

Inside, cartoons flickered — Inspector Gadget made us giggle, and Strawberry Shortcake spun her pink adventures on Minimax. Those were our quiet kingdoms before footsteps and adult voices filled the house.

Soon enough, Mama’s voice called us to the small table on the kitchen balcony. She was warming milk on the stove, humming something cheerful while slices of cheese bread and pieces of sausage waited on our plates. We sat there together, still sticky-eyed from sleep, but happy — the world beyond the balcony felt far away and unimportant.

Papa left for work after breakfast, his shoes tapping down the hallway. Mama stayed behind, balancing her foot on the balcony rail, carefully brushing her fingernails with red gel polish that gleamed in the sun. I watched her — the way her hands moved made me feel older somehow.

I asked her shyly if she could paint mine too. I remember how she laughed, not mocking, but surprised and warm. She called me her big girl and waved for me to sit beside her. One by one, she brushed that shiny red onto my tiny nails, letting me peek at the grown-up world for the very first time.

We sat side by side, hands resting in the breeze, waiting for the polish to dry. A song played from the kitchen radio — something old and sweet. Mama sang the chorus, and I tried to follow, our voices drifting into the sleepy street below. I was eight, on holiday, my fingertips glinting in the sun — and for a moment, nothing felt more perfect than matching Mama’s red nails and singing in the morning light.

- Onnaya