The Quick, the dead

When I trim my nails I count the percentage of how much of the task is behind me — ten percent, twenty percent, thirty. I’m not one of those people who does this in the living room or at work. I carry around my share of body shyness, reticent to reveal my many imperfections. This would perhaps disappoint my mother who wanted us to be better than this world, its various Victorian shames. I tried, Mother, I did. And though I agree with your ambitions, I can count on one hand — fifty percent of my available fingers — the times I’ve faced the world naked and not wanted to crawl away. There’s a photograph of Queen Victoria on her deathbed. She’s wearing white. She’s surrounded by flowers. Someone has given her a cross to hold. The message of the photo, if a picture has a message, is peaceful, not sad. But the lie we tell ourselves — how else would we carry on? — is that body and soul can be separated. They cannot. What pains one, pains the other. What fuels one, etc. Haven’t you ever blushed? Haven’t you ever been touched? Haven’t you ever cut too close to the quick and been unable to concentrate on anything else for the three days it takes your nail to grow back?