The Ember’s Long Breath
There is a particular quality to the light of a dying fire in the deep dark of a winter night. It is not the steady, reliable glow of a lamp, but a frantic, pulsing orange that seems to be fighting the encroaching frost. In the north, we learn…
The Weight of Walls
The room holds its breath. It is not empty, though no one is here. It is full of the things we did not say, the hours we spent watching the dust settle in shafts of gray light. We think we are waiting for the door to open. We are actually waiting…
The Weight of Shared Bread
There is a specific silence that follows a meal shared with strangers. It is not the silence of emptiness, but the heavy, comfortable quiet of two people who have finished speaking because they have finally been heard. I remember the way my…