Death’s manicure

My grandmother is dying. At 88, she lived independently until a fall in early November sent her in and out of hospital and nursing home in a downward spiral. She’s getting near the end now and each day bring some new twist in the spiral. Jenn said I wouldn’t recognise her when I went to visit.
Of course, I did know her. She still has her own light in her eyes, though it’s dimmer than I recall. I’d like to think she recognised me, too. Maybe. Perhaps not. She wasn’t talking, just moaning in a frustrated, painful way until she fell asleep.
Her hands are restrained because she plucks at her tubes and wires. Her left hand is swollen and purple; the skin of her right palm is red and cracked. But her nail are, as always, beautifully done.
When I was about 11, she gave me a manicure kit covered in magenta suede that snapped closed with a gold fixture like a change purse. Inside were slots filled with files, tweezers and inscrutable implements with plastic mother-of-pearl handles. “A lady always keeps her nails neat,” she told me, looking pointedly at my ragged chewed fingers. I figured out how to use all of those tools, but looking down at my hands now (a tiny hint of green paint under my right index finger, dry cuticles glaring white in every corner, cracked and ugly edges from nibbling) I wish I had inherited her strong, gorgeous nails.
They say the the nails continue to grow after death. But it’s not true, just an old wive’s tale.