The Breath of Memory
How much of a life is contained in a single, drifting cloud of grey? We often measure our existence by the grand milestones—the arrivals, the departures, the loud proclamations of who we are. Yet, there is a quiet, persistent truth in the…
The Weight of a Morning
I have a small, chipped ceramic saucer in my cupboard that once belonged to my grandmother. It is stained with the faint, circular ghost of a tea ring that will never wash away, no matter how hard I scrub. That ring is a map of a morning long…
The Witness Above
I have been thinking about the things we leave behind when we think no one is watching. We move through our days in small, frantic circles, convinced that our private griefs or quiet joys are contained entirely within our own skin. We forget…