My fingernails turn blue in the cold. Bitter January air seeps beneath my skin and bruises my nails the steely color of winter skies. The pigment pools in my nail beds—it is richest, deepest there, aglow with purple hues—before spreading upwards and fading at the curved edges. My lips turn this shade, too.
Just before he died, my grandfather’s nails turned blue. This is how the nurse knew it was nearly time. She told my mother that he only had a few hours left, but my mother shook her head fiercely: No, no, not today. You’re wrong, we need more time.
Still, she allowed the nurse to clean my grandfather and dress him in his good clothes. A button-down shirt and nice slacks to replace the thick, gray robe he had been wearing to keep warm. My mother sat by his side for those next few hours. She folded his thin, crinkled hand in her own and watched his fingertips change color. Tiny blue shadows fell across each nail.
I was not with my grandfather when he died, but my mother told me that his passing was calm. His pulse weakened and became irregular. His skin cooled. The pauses between his breaths lengthened, leaving my mother wondering if each exhale was his last. Just after his heart stopped, a soft sigh floated from between his lips, as if his soul had been untethered from his body and released, balloon-like, into the air.
Later that day, I arrived to see my grandfather. He lay atop his bed, his eyes closed, looking peaceful. The warmth had left his body, and I kissed his head, resting my hand on his cool one. It took me hours to say my goodbye. Who knew grief could feel this cold and bottomless?
When the date of his death arrives each spring, just as the ground is thawing, I think of my grandfather. I think of him in the summer when I visit his old house and wander through its rooms. I think of him in the fall when the leaves turn, and it becomes cool enough to wear his sweaters around campus. I think of him in the winter, when his birthday passes and he is not here to celebrate it. My mother has always told me that death is not the end. She believes we are meant to reunite with the people we love, and I must believe this too—it is the one hope still keeping me warm.
I thought of my grandfather this winter when I was back home for the holidays. The cold lingered beneath my skin, and for the first time, I noticed the odd hues of my own nails. I showed my mother my fingertips, blue like tiny cornflowers blooming from my nail beds. She put a hand over her mouth. After rushing to the nearest drugstore, she returned with a tiny oxygen monitor that clamped over my pointer finger and displayed a number. The number was in the normal range. I was not dying. She let out a sigh, relieved for a moment, then spent the next half hour researching every possible illness that could lie behind the blueness. I watched her, blowing hotly on my hands until the blue dissipated.
