The Weight of Petals
I keep a pressed yellow tulip inside a heavy dictionary, its edges now translucent and brittle as a moth’s wing. It was plucked from a garden long before I understood that beauty is often a precursor to departure. When I touch the dried stem,…
The Quiet Ritual of Care
I burned my toast this morning, a small, charred reminder that I was rushing again. I stood by the counter, scraping the black edges off, feeling that familiar prickle of impatience. But then I stopped. I watched my daughter reach for the honey,…
The Weight of a Curtain
I spent twenty minutes this morning trying to find my keys, only to realize they were in the pocket of the coat I wore yesterday. It was one of those small, silly moments that makes you feel like you are moving through the world with your eyes…