My granddaughter painted my nails the same red my sister wore

Dear Delyara, My sister died when we were both in our twenties. I am eighty now. For most of my life, she has been dead longer than she was alive, which is a sentence I still dislike. My granddaughter came over today with nail polish and chose a bright red shade. The moment she opened it, I remembered my sister painting her nails that exact color before dances. I told my granddaughter. She said, “Then we’re using it.” My hands are old now—veins, age spots, knuckles swollen with arthritis. Red polish looked almost comically bright. My granddaughter held each finger gently because I shake. While she painted, I told her about my sister stealing my shoes, singing badly, kissing a boy behind our mother’s laundry line. Stories I had not thought about in years came out one after another. My granddaughter knows my sister only from black-and-white photographs where everyone looks solemn. Tonight, my nails are bright red, messy around the edges, and every time I see them I remember that my sister was once young enough to care desperately whether polish had chipped before Saturday night. Grief usually preserves people at death. Today, vanity gave me back a bit of her life.