She didn’t look like herself. She was, if visually related to what I expected, a chipmunk-cheeked, brownstone Brooklyn, maternal version of my rear-view expectation, brandishing a look that worked on its own terms and which I found attractive when I tried to figure out who she was.
But it didn’t quite work as her.
Would have loved the look if I’d been part of the transition, though. Chubby-cheeked mother of my child and partner in domestic life. The very definition of beauty.
Okay, I kind of even liked it now.
Still, while she beamed mommy joy ’round eye-obscuring glasses, the temporal inconsistency — dare I say diminution? — of her looks gave me something to hang onto as I moved into my day.
Until her devil child decided to flash big toddler eyes at me and hurl enthusiastic, world-embracing goodbyes my way as I vanished into later.