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…
The Snap of Green
The first bite of a summer apple is a sound before it is a taste. It is a sharp, clean crack that travels through the jaw and settles behind the ears, a sudden release of cold, acidic juice that stings the tongue just enough to wake the nerves.…