Dirty fingernails.

Little girls don’t have dirty fingernails… usually.

I once could not imagine that I would have a curly-haired little boy with such soiled fingernails. But I do.

They interlace in my long, clean fingers as we walk through shops and markets. He happily chatters on about this or that to his clueless mother.

His chubby fingers are caked with peanut butter, matching his sweet cheeks.

“How much do you love me?” I ask.

“More than peanut butter and jelly” he says, “and that’s a lot.”

These fingers are marked with all sorts of colors and dirt, signs foreshadowing the hard worker he will become. His fingers are strong, and so is he.

With these fingers he digs in the dirt to plant, to discover, to imagine.

These fingers hand me daisies and dandelions picked from the yard, the most stunning gift he can imagine for the mama he adores.

I am grateful for this boy-man whose dirty fingernails leave marks on walls and messes in sinks. He shows me that strength arises from the mud and blossoms into sturdy joy.

Growing older, his fingers wrap around the handles or the sides of my heavy things to carry. And I think, what grace, that I should be allowed this.

Soon, these dirty fingernails will carry his own things away. They will earn his living and provide for his own grimy fingernail-little boys.

I take a deep breath. These moments slip away, barely noticeable in the midst of scrubbing and behaviors. But today, these dirty fingernails, accompanied by all their love and frustrations, are held preciously in mine.