Good Girl by Claudia Smith
What did it mean to be someone who ironed her ten-year-old jeans?
Recently Published
I no longer harangue every desk nurse at every hospital for a taxonomic breakdown of her bills. I don’t ask for the numbers of the Benadryl, the water cups, the abdominal touches done with gloved hands. I am the most American I’ve ever been—she costs what she costs and I eat it.
What did it mean to be someone who ironed her ten-year-old jeans?
When his mother died the year we got married, I suggested he see a psychic medium.
One of those places where they printed local heroes’ faces on flags flown from telephone poles.
He only laughs when Cookie does something bad that he finds cute, or when Mother or me are hurt or afraid.
It is 1981, no one outside of Japan or Scandinavia has a cell phone.