by Dan Leonard

 

Jenna went to school.

 

At school, she learned about the Mona Lisa.

“The most beautiful painting in the world,” her teacher said.

 

Jenna thought about that all the way home.

That night was her mother’s birthday.

 

Jenna set out her paints.

Browns.
Golds.
Careful colors.

“I will paint the most beautiful woman in the world,” she said.

 

She closed her eyes.
She tried to remember.

 

She began with the eyes.

She painted them.

Then she looked.

No.

They had done it again.

They looked like they already knew it was her.
They did the soft thing first—
before the smile came.

“Not like that,” Jenna said.

She painted them again.

They did it again.

She left them.

 

Next came the mouth.

A small line.
Straight.
Museum-still.

She painted it.

Then she looked.

No.

One corner had lifted.
Just a little.

Like it did
right before saying Jenna.

“Not like that,” she said.

She wiped it away.

The color spread—
softer than she meant.

 

She painted it again.

Small.
Straight.

She looked.

Cold.

“Too warm,” Jenna whispered.

She painted the corner back.

 

Then the hair.

She tucked it in.

She made it stay.

She painted it smooth.

Then she looked.

No.

That one piece had gotten out again.

It never stayed put through breakfast.
Not through laughing.
Not through anything.

Jenna watched it.

Then she let it stay

 

Then the hands.

She painted them resting.

Then she looked.

No.

These hands were busy.

They fixed the strap
before it twisted all the way.

They caught the cup
before the milk got there first.

They found Jenna’s hand
in the dark
like they already knew where it would be.

 

Jenna tried to make them stay still.

She couldn’t.

“Not like that,” she said softly.

 

Jenna leaned back.

“This isn’t her,” she said.

She looked at the painting.

Not the Mona Lisa.
Not even close.

 

Jenna looked at the clock.

No more time.

She leaned in.

Just one more.

She tried to fix the mouth—
make it smaller.
make it still.

It wouldn’t be her.

Jenna stopped.

 

She wrapped it anyway.

 

At dinner, she carried the box carefully.

“Happy Birthday, Mom,” she said.

Her mother smiled.

Jenna watched her open it.

Slowly.
Carefully.

 

Her mother looked at the painting.
Then at Jenna.

Her eyes did the soft thing first.
Then her mouth.

 

Jenna looked at the smile again.

It felt… right.

She looked at the painting.
Then at her mother.
Then back again.

The eyes.
The corner.
That piece of hair.
The hands.

Oh.

My Mona Lisa.