In the nail salon, she’s
manicuring for the big day
tomorrow, getting married
in a friend’s lovely yard,
the young woman whose
hands are currently being held
by a blue-gloved woman
filing newly applied
French tips.

I overhear the story—
about 30 guests, plenty
of parking in the neighborhood,
neighbors making space
for the celebrants, catered
by a pizza guy in a food truck.

Honeymoon? asks the manicurist.
Maybe next year, says the bride.
It’s been a big year, buying a house,
getting married.

And that’s when you drop in,
your big hand landing on
my shoulder (like us!),
your smile caressing my lips.

Four decades melt away
like the knots in my calves
after Eric has massaged them
into jelly, the pedicurist now
dabbing rosy polka dots
at the ends of my toes.

You had good hands, too,
my dear, when you had hands
and a body to carry them.
You’d have liked a pizza truck,
too, as I imagine her groom will.

And the bride, silent now,
looking into the distance,
must be reviewing all the
still-must-be-dones on her
to-do list before she rises
to wash her hands and
head into—

“oh, please let it be,”
you and I whisper together—

the rest of her joy-filled,
married life.