The Architecture of Waiting
It is 3:15 am, and the house has finally stopped settling. In this silence, I think about the things we build to keep ourselves in, or perhaps to keep the world out. We construct cages of iron and habit, convinced that the pattern of our confinement…
The Echo of Cobblestones
When I was seven, my uncle took me to a town where the streets were made of stones that had been polished smooth by centuries of footsteps. I remember pressing my palm against the cool, uneven surface of a wall, wondering how many hands had…
The Weight of a Worn Coat
I have a wool coat in the back of my closet that still smells faintly of woodsmoke and damp earth, a relic from a winter I spent wandering through cities that did not know my name. The fabric is thin at the elbows, worn down by years of leaning…