So often, the minuscule is overlooked, not seen to be important. A word or nuance is missed. An object or experience is seen but not comprehended: not truly taken in. Memory barely manages to redress the balance, but it responds to all kinds of triggers and can replay all number of forgotten, near-ignored details. When it does, the miniature is suddenly there in our consciousness. Seizing these small moments and grasping the tiny parts of something bigger can expand our thinking so much. You hold that one thing and everything else floods back or fills in, like the enabling of some kind of mnemonic device. The minuscule is all around us, but is easily missed and neglected.

And so I rediscover an image of Charlotte. A sequence of intricate images, to be exact: frames recorded long ago to be relived again later, perhaps only then to be fully savoured. It’s the moment at which her gaze moves away from mine, unlocking from its tightrope stare, her head dipping ever so faintly. There is that yet more gentle press and rub of the triangles of her neck, where jaw, collarbone, shoulder and vertebrae all dictate the push and pull of flesh. She looks down to the floor and a shutter of thin skin falls down over the grey, blue, ink-blot-brown of her eyes. Then her gaze lifts again, but this time not to be fastened once more with mine. This time to journey somewhere else, knowing it will be followed. And I do follow it, for a few seconds more, and then I disconnect too.

In recapturing the moment, in this flowering from the miniature, I experience the chest-pounding, cold-air shock of what was unspoken, yet manifest and reciprocated in that look: this is the friend I love most, the partner I still desire, the mother of my children; the life that is wrapped around my own. And it was there, in those five or six seconds of a day.