The Weight of Hands
There is a rhythm to the things we do when no one is watching. A repetitive motion that wears down the edges of the day. We gather what is left behind—the dry stalks, the broken bits of a season—and we bind them together. It is not about…
The Wax and the Wish
The smell of a struck match always brings me back to the kitchen floor of my childhood. It is a sharp, sulfurous sting that blooms into the sweet, heavy scent of melting paraffin. I remember the way the heat would press against my cheeks, a…
The Quiet Watchers
There is a particular stillness that belongs only to childhood. It is not the absence of movement, but a total surrender to the present moment. When we are young, we do not watch the clock or worry about the path ahead; we simply exist within…