The Weight of Being Seen
I walked past the same man on the corner three times today. He sits there with his head bowed, a small cardboard sign resting against his knees, and most people just walk around him like he is part of the sidewalk. The first time, I was busy…
A World of Octobers by Anna CicalaThe Weight of Falling Leaves
The blue wool sweater my father wore in the autumn of 1998 is gone, thinned by moths and eventually discarded, but I still feel the texture of its weave against my cheek. It is a specific absence—the smell of cedar and damp earth that clung…
The Weight of the Span
I remember standing on the pier at Brighton when the wind was so fierce it felt like a physical hand pushing against my chest. There was a woman standing near the railing, staring out at the grey churn of the English Channel. She wasn't looking…