The Weight of Summer
I remember a Tuesday in July when the heat in the city was so thick you could almost lean against it. I had ducked into a small park near the station, looking for nothing more than a patch of shade. There were two boys there, no older than…
The Salt of Summer
The taste of summer is always metallic—the sharp, cold tang of a public fountain, the way the water tastes like copper and concrete when you are too thirsty to care. I remember the feeling of wet cotton clinging to my shoulder blades, the…
The Weight of Resting
I keep a small, smooth stone in my pocket that I picked up from a path I walked years ago. It is worn down by the friction of my thumb, a quiet record of the miles I have traveled and the moments I have chosen to stop. We are so often defined…