The Weight of a Name
I keep a small, rusted key in a velvet pouch, though I have long since forgotten which door it once opened. It is heavy for its size, a cold piece of iron that feels like a secret held too tightly in the palm. We spend our lives collecting…
The Rhythm of the Hands
Dear maker, I have been thinking about the things we discard. We live in a world that demands speed, where objects are born in molds and die in landfills, never having known the warmth of a human palm. There is a quiet violence in that efficiency.…
The World Behind the Glass
I was sitting on the floor this morning, trying to fold laundry, when I caught my nephew staring at a tablet. He was completely still. His mouth was slightly open, and his eyes were wide, reflecting a blue light that seemed to pull him entirely…