Post Partum by Yari Jacobson

I pulled into the driveway of our 4BR 2BA ranch style in Mesa.
She was sitting on the front steps with her face in her palms, her
cigarette, still between her fingers, had been smoked to the filter
and went out. I remember thinking, “a fitting metaphor.” Later
that evening as I fixed dinner for the kids I caught her staring at a
mirror as if she was trying to figure out why Mona Lisa smiled.
She no longer painted her pouty lips to match her nails or
carefully drew bold, black lines so her blue eyes popped and her
hair, once perfectly coiffed, now flat and dull. She was 23; we
both were; now she seemed much older. After I put the kids
down for the night I told her I felt like my batteries needed
recharging. She said, “I feel like disposable ones.” In the
morning she picked up a duffel bag, said she needed to find
herself. Three dirty diapers, a kindergartner and I watched her
close the door and roll up the window of the taxi, tinted windows
shining like resurrection.

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