The Weight of Small Things
I keep a small, dried petal inside the pages of a dictionary, pressed so thin it has become part of the paper itself. It is a fragile, translucent thing, the color of a sunset that has long since faded into gray. When I touch it, I am reminded…
The Quiet Bloom of Presence
There is a particular way a face opens when it is not being asked to perform. It is a slow, unfolding movement, much like the petals of a flower turning toward the first light of dawn. We spend so much of our time guarding the gates of our…
Lovers on Charles Bridge by Mirka KrivankovaThe Weight of Being Held
It is 3:14 am. The house is quiet enough to hear the hum of the refrigerator, a sound that feels like a heartbeat in an empty room. I am thinking about how we hold onto each other. Not the way we touch when the sun is up, but the way we cling…