Seeing her for the first time was like reading the opening line of a good book. I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was something about her, something captivating, something devastating that reached inside of me and planted roots. There was something extraordinary hidden away in the lines around her eyes and the freckles that dotted the tops of her shoulders. Like words on a page, she was made of ordinary things, of curves and curls and brightly colored eyes. Like a book, she consisted of nouns and adjectives, but she was strung together like poetry.
She wore her smile like a mask, a cover, but her eyes spoke of stories. Her spine was rigid and straight, proud and confident. And though it looked smooth, her skin was weathered and worn, like she had lived or been loved a little too harshly or held by one too many uncaring hands. An ethereal air hung around her like an aura, like she was filled with more stories than any one book should hold.
I felt compelled to learn her page by page, to uncover how her laughter could be so bright while she wore a smile that sagged at the edges. But I knew by the way adventure bled from the green of her eyes that she never sat still long enough to collect dust. And as she smiled and then promptly looked away, I had the sinking feeling that knowing her would be like reading the last line in my favorite book- bitter and beautiful and the kind of memory that leaves fingerprints on your soul.
Photography by Abigail Saturday