The Paper Lanterns of Summer
When I was seven, my grandmother kept a bowl of dried husks on the windowsill in Enugu. They were brittle, translucent things that looked like tiny, folded lanterns waiting for a breeze to carry them away. I remember peeling back the papery…
The Weight of a Gaze
There is a specific quality to the light just before a storm breaks in the high north, a heavy, bruised yellow that seems to press against the glass. It is a light that demands attention, stripping away the comfort of shadows and forcing everything…
The Weight of the Unseen
Seneca once remarked that it is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is truly poor. We walk through our days surrounded by the architecture of history and the noise of the present, often treating the people we pass…