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…
The Weight of a Wing
It is 3:15 am. The house has finally stopped settling, and the silence is heavy enough to touch. In the dark, I find myself thinking about the things that exist only because they are small and quick. We spend our lives trying to anchor ourselves…