The Weight of a Breath
I keep a small, dried sprig of lavender inside the pages of a book I rarely open. It is brittle now, a ghost of a plant that once swayed in a garden I have long since left behind. When I touch it, the petals crumble into a fine, fragrant dust,…
The Weight of a Hand
When I was six, my mother used to hold my hand so tightly when we crossed the busy market street that my knuckles would turn white. I remember the smell of her coat—damp wool and peppermint—and the way she would pull me closer whenever…
The Velocity of Being
I remember my nephew, Leo, at six years old. He didn't walk; he existed in a state of perpetual motion, a blur of knees and elbows that seemed to defy the gravity of the living room. I once tried to get him to sit still for a portrait near…