The Quiet Return
I found a single dried petal inside the pages of a book I haven't opened since last winter. It was brittle, almost transparent, but it brought back the exact scent of the first warm day of the year. We spend so much of our time rushing toward…
The Weight of Small Things
I keep a pressed fern inside a heavy dictionary, its edges brittle as a moth’s wing. It was plucked from a garden path decades ago, a tiny, insignificant thing that I once thought worth saving. When I touch it now, it crumbles slightly, shedding…
The Weight of Each Other
I remember watching a group of roofers in a small town outside of Bristol. They were passing heavy slate tiles up a ladder, one by one, a rhythmic chain of calloused hands. I asked the man at the base if he ever worried about the person at…