The Weight of a Name
To whoever is holding this letter, I have been thinking about the way we carry the people we have lost. It is not a heavy burden, not exactly, but it is a constant one. We hold them in the quiet spaces of our days, in the way we fold a sweater…
The Weight of Small Hands
When I was seven, my grandmother gave me a wooden bucket and told me to collect the eggs from the coop behind the shed. I remember the smell of dry straw and the nervous flutter of wings that sounded like paper being torn. I was terrified of…
The Beauty of the Unseen
I was chopping vegetables for dinner tonight, moving through the motions of a Tuesday, when I stopped to look at the cutting board. The colors were vibrant, almost neon against the wood, and for a second, I didn't see food at all. I saw patterns,…