Freshly Made Fruit Cake, by Rabih MadiThe Weight of Sunday
I spent this morning trying to bake a loaf of bread, but I got distracted by the way the flour dusted the kitchen counter. It looked like a light snowfall in the middle of spring. I ended up just standing there, watching the dust motes dance…
Golden Road by Ali BerradaThe Path We Walk Alone
When I was seven, my grandfather took me to the village square long after the market stalls had been dismantled. The ground was swept clean, save for a few stray husks and the long, stretching shadows cast by the stone pillars. I remember feeling…
Blackrock by Karin EibenbergerThe Weight of the Tide
I keep a smooth, grey stone on my desk that I pulled from the surf years ago. It is worn perfectly round by the relentless friction of the ocean, a small testament to the way water eventually softens even the hardest things. When I hold it,…