Petrichor
oil on canvasboard
5 x 7”
[for sale]
What else is there to say about that afternoon? We were pleasantly chilled; dewy with the fine mist that preceded rain in those days. The air between us was like vaseline on the lens of a glamour photographer, softening her lines until she looked like her thirteen-year-old self, only a revisionist’s vision of that woman-child: an old soul, something like she saw herself, then, in her quieter, more powerful moments of pubescence, turning and turning in front of a darkened bedroom mirror, forgetting the child-body that still held her—the puppy fat, the indefinite bone structure under baby cheeks, the tenacious little tummy—and seeing clearly, just for a moment, her own potential.