The Weight of a Hand
When I was seven, my mother would hold my hand while we walked to the market, her palm always rough from the scrub brush and the lye soap she used to clean our floors. I remember the way she would squeeze my fingers whenever a car passed too…
The Quiet Weight of Stone
Dear reader, I have been thinking about the way we carry the past. We treat history like a heavy coat, something we pull tight around our shoulders when the air turns sharp and the light begins to fail. We walk past old walls and silent, grand…
The Weight of the Unknown
To whoever is watching the water, I have been thinking about the way we learn to be afraid. It isn't always a lesson taught by words; sometimes, it is just a sudden, sharp stillness that settles in the chest when we realize the world is much…