The Weight of a Second
We often speak of time as if it were a river, something that flows past us with a steady, indifferent current. We measure it in increments—seconds, minutes, hours—as if we could trap the infinite in a glass jar. Yet, there are moments when…
The Weight of Sunday
I keep a small, chipped ceramic saucer in the back of my cupboard, stained by the ghost of a thousand afternoons. It was my grandmother’s, and for years, it held nothing but the crumbs of simple, buttery biscuits baked in a kitchen that smelled…
The Weight of White
We paint to hide the passage of time. A layer of lime, a fresh skin over the old stone, and for a moment, the history of the wall is erased. It is a ritual of erasure. We believe that if we make the surface bright enough, the sun will recognize…