The Weight of Small Hands
In the quiet corners of a house, history often hides in plain sight. We tend to think of the past as something etched in stone or bound in heavy, dusty volumes, but it is far more fluid than that. It lives in the way a child mimics the posture…
The Hum of Distant Gold
The smell of cold iron always brings me back to the winter of my seventh year. It is a metallic, sharp scent that clings to the back of the throat, like the taste of a frozen railing on a playground. I remember the way the air felt against…
The Weight of Waiting
We spend our lives waiting for something to arrive, or perhaps for something to leave. We stand on corners, hands in pockets, watching the gray light settle over the pavement. It is a quiet labor. There is no urgency in the way the shadows…