As I was trimming my nails recently, my thoughts turned to my mom. You might assume, from that association, that she was someone who spent a lot of time tending to her nails, perhaps regularly getting manicures and wearing nail polish. But she wasn’t. Her nails were of average length and the rare times I remember her having polish on them were special occasions like family weddings. She did always have a nail file (remember emery boards?) in her purse for the occasional fix. In fact, several years ago, she gave me a one-of-a-kind file with handmade adornments made by a local artist. I still have it. So yes, while regular nail grooming was normal for her, she didn’t dwell on it.

That’s not to say she didn’t care about her overall appearance. Quite the contrary. While she didn’t wear a lot of make-up, she was always put together. She was not a slave to fashion but appreciated timeless clothing styles and wore them well. Her closet was filled with lots of basic black and navy separates that were often worn with colorful jackets and/or scarves. She had beautifully soft white hair that was washed and styled regularly. She had outerwear for every possible type of weather and shoes for every occasion.

One of the first things to go, as they say, was her ability to trim her own nails. Maybe it was the fine motor coordination required to use a clipper, or remembering to do it, or most likely a combination of the two. Regardless, she knew when they’d get too long and need some attention. Lucky for her, she just happened to have a new husband who, initially, would lovingly trim them for her himself, despite his own inexperience. She gushed with appreciation every time he did, not only because the nails were back to a respectable length, but more importantly, because she had someone in her life, a partner who cherished her, who was willing to tend to those mundane needs when she could no longer do it herself.

Strangely enough, it’s reminiscent of when my dad used to trim our nails with a clipper. He called it nitzing. We all have memories of those moments. There are even photos that preserve what would otherwise have been an uneventful occurrence in our young lives, sitting on Dad’s lap getting our nails nitzed. But I digress.

Eventually other everyday tasks started requiring help. Putting on earrings. Writing a thank you note. Walking to the kitchen. Remembering what day it was. And during this time, she started getting more frequent manicures and actually enjoyed having her nails polished…a rare sight for those of us who had known her our entire lives. There were a lot of things that were feeling unfamiliar during that time. One independent act she held onto was filing her nails. In fact, she ended up becoming a little obsessed with having her favorite file nearby while enjoying afternoon tea or watching the evening news, two longstanding routines of her husband’s that fatefully brought much-needed structure to her life too. That file would often go missing and we would laugh when we’d find it in the couch cushions or under the bed. In fact, there were soon multiple files so that at least one would always be accessible when she wanted it.

It’s funny how we can be reminded of those little things and grow to treasure them. How an everyday object can spark a memory that helps you find some peace. I use the handmade nail file my mom gave me regularly and I’ve always thought of her when I do. That is even more true now. May we all come to cherish similar objects and memories for what they give us in the absence of those we love.