It's Still Life

My Chrysalism

I found the first book I ever read in a wilted cardboard box in the loft—a story about a mischievous little girl who lived in an orphanage in Paris, though the orphanage turned out to be a boarding school, which, to a five-year-old, felt much the same. As I opened it (the spine cracking not from misuse, but disuse), the air filling with vellichor, each page scented with bibliosmia.

I turned the first page, and there she was—Madeline, in her blue dress and yellow hat, its ribbon trailing over her shoulders. And there I was again, sitting on a small wooden chair in the corner of the public library (Mum in the travel section, dreaming of the world but never stepping into it), my little sister just close enough for her foot to connect with my ankle when she willed it.

Dad bought that book for me, and that summer, I read it several times a day for eighty-two days—memorised every word, recited it as easily as I played Trois Gymnopédies on the piano the following year.

And as I turned the next page, I thought of you—who loves the scent of summer rain and the sound of thunder, while I shelter in my chrysalism, reading Madeline.

Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.

Description for the visually impaired: A young girl sits reading a book on a chair beside a small house with a chimney, while butterflies flutter around her and a balloon floats above a patch of tall grass, all rendered in a detailed, hand-drawn style with a mix of cross-hatching and fine lines.