The Weight of a Hand
I was walking through the grocery store this morning when I saw a toddler drop his toy. He didn't scream or throw a fit; he just stood there, his face crumpling, looking around for someone to tell him it would be okay. For a second, the whole…
The Grit of Stillness
The taste of fine, dry earth is a memory I keep on the back of my tongue, a metallic tang that arrives whenever the wind shifts just so. It is the flavor of a long, slow wait. When you sit for hours in the sun, the heat begins to feel like…
The Weight of a Small Flame
I keep a small, rusted tin box in the back of my drawer, filled with the charred remains of birthday candles from years long gone. They are misshapen, wax-slicked things, smelling faintly of smoke and old celebrations. To anyone else, they…