The Weight of Small Things
There is a specific weight to a living thing held against the chest, a pressure that reminds you exactly where your own body ends and another begins. I remember the way a stray cat used to settle into the crook of my arm, its heartbeat a frantic,…
The Cold Edge of Knowing
The smell of rain on hot pavement always brings me back to the hallway of my childhood home. There was a tall, silver-backed glass that hung by the door, its surface cool enough to steal the heat from your fingertips if you pressed them against…
The Rhythm of the Unpaved
I often find myself wandering the periphery of the city, where the manicured boulevards surrender to the dust and the wilder edges of the map. There is a specific silence that lives in these places, a quiet that isn't empty but heavy with the…