The Weight of Quiet
I remember sitting in a small cafe in Bergen, watching a man struggle to zip up his heavy parka before stepping out into the biting wind. He didn't look like he was heading to a meeting or a grocery store; he looked like he was heading toward…
The Weight of White
I keep a small, wool mitten in the back of my drawer, the kind knitted with thick, uneven stitches that pull at the seams. It belonged to no one I can name, yet it carries the distinct, heavy chill of a season that refused to end. There is…
The Weight of Distance
I keep a small, smooth stone in my desk drawer, pulled from a riverbed I visited when I was far too young to understand the permanence of geography. It is cool to the touch, heavy with the sediment of mountains that have stood long before my…