Old Lady Clipping Her Fingernails on the Jeepney

Over the din of the rattly old jeepeny and of the podcast I am listening to I hear the faint click, click, click, of which I know is the distinct sound of someone clipping their fingernails. I turn my head looking for the culprit and sure enough there she is, an old lady intently staring at her hand and clipping away at her fingernails as the jeepney speeds on down the road.

When she is done clipping her nails she brushes the little quarter moons onto the floor of the jeepeny scattering them like stars in the sky. It is the formation of a Milky Way only those of us riding in that particular jeepney on that exact day at that exact time will ever witness. The air rushing in from the open back door and along the floor will soon blow these lifeless pieces of her body into places as yet unknown, a cataclysm destroying forever the world she has created for only a moment. 

Like nail clippings in the wind so are the days of our lives. We grow and grow until we are clipped by the black nail cutter who will clip us all never to be again.

As I alight at my stop and walk away a bemused smile crosses my face as I remember the old lady I once saw in church clipping her nails. Nobody turned their head. Nobody told her to please stop. The preacher continued preaching his sermon and everyone acted like they did not hear the metallic snap, snap, snap of the nail cutter as the old lady trimmed her nails in church just as if it were a salon.

It must be an old Filipina thing to clip ones' nails in public spaces.