The Velvet Pulse
There is a specific resistance when you press your thumb against the petal of a poppy. It is not quite silk, and it is not quite paper; it is the feeling of something living that has decided to let go. I remember the smell of sun-baked earth…
The Path We Choose
I spent this morning staring at a map on my phone, trying to find the fastest way to get across town. There were three different routes, all colored in shades of red and orange, promising delays and construction. I felt that familiar itch in…
The Map of Years
We measure time in clocks, but the body keeps a different count. It is written in the skin, in the way the hands fold when there is nothing left to hold. We spend our youth trying to smooth the surface, to erase the lines that experience carves…