The Weight of Morning
I keep a small, smooth stone on my desk, pulled from the shoreline of a beach I visited when I was still young enough to believe that time was a river that only flowed forward. It is cold to the touch, worn down by the constant, rhythmic friction…
Evidence of a Passing
I remember walking through the woods behind my grandfather’s house in Shropshire after the first heavy frost of the year. The ground was a blank slate, silent and unforgiving. I spent an hour trying to track a fox, but the earth was too hard…
The Salt on Skin
The taste of summer is always salt. It settles on the back of the throat, a dry, stinging reminder of the ocean’s reach. I remember the feeling of sand between my toes—not the soft, powdery kind, but the coarse, gritty grains that wedge…