For most of my adolescence, I shared my room with this winsome girl:
The large poster was a fixture on the wall beside my bed.
Years later, I traveled to San Francisco and saw William-Adolphe Bouguereau's lush
painting in the soft light of the de Young Museum. The docent pointed to the broken pitcher and remarked on the symbolism of lost innocence, the visitors nodded in agreement. But my impression was
filtered by all those days and nights of growing up and into young adulthood under her steady gaze.
She appeared no different from me or my teenaged friends; a little unsure, a little forlorn, and unaware of all that waited just ahead.