A Private View
The New Yorker - April 20th 2026
“…None of the men looked up as my mother came down the museum stairs. I felt sorry for her. I wished I could make them notice. When she reached the middle landing, she paused, and I could tell she was resisting the urge to go back up and give them a second chance to get a good look. I smiled as she began to descend the final set. She gave a little kick with each step so that her long coat parted and revealed a shapely leg.
Jean wasn’t wearing her glasses, which helped to spare her from disappointment. She couldn’t see that the men had ignored her but I was certain she had felt it. She couldn’t see me from this distance, either, but she didn’t squint or search about; she simply arrived in the space knowing I would be there for her. I was always there for her.
As she neared the bottom of the stairs, she unbuttoned her coat. She was wearing her favorite dress, the knitted one with herons embroidered on the front, their necks intertwined and the moonlit sky behind them set with paillettes and sequins. It had the cheap glint of Lurex and although it was loose it clung to her body in the places she was softest…”
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