The Weight of Morning
There is a specific gravity to the start of a day. Before the city wakes, before the noise begins to layer itself over the stones, there is only the movement of the essential. We carry what we need to survive. It is a quiet labor, performed…
The Weight of Unspoken Years
Why do we assume that the passage of time is a subtraction, a slow erosion of the self until only a ghost remains? We look at the lines etched into a face and call them maps of what has been lost, yet perhaps they are actually the architecture…
The Warmth of Morning
I have a small, chipped ceramic bowl in my cupboard that I cannot bring myself to discard. It is stained with the faint, tea-colored rings of a thousand quiet mornings, a map of slow starts and solitary reflections. When I hold it, I am not…