The Weight of Green
There is a particular way the light behaves when it is forced to pass through a barrier. It loses its arrogance. It becomes something else—a filtered, hesitant thing that clings to the edges of what it touches. We spend our lives looking…
The Weight of White
In the deepest part of the year, the world undergoes a strange, quiet subtraction. We are accustomed to the clutter of summer—the frantic green of leaves, the noise of insects, the relentless demand of growth. But winter acts as a great eraser.…
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…