The Weight of Quiet
When I was seven, my grandfather took me to the edge of the valley behind our house just as the light began to bruise into purple. He told me to stop talking and to stop moving my feet. I remember the sudden, heavy silence that rushed in to…
The Weight of the Path
There is a specific silence in the shoes we no longer wear. I keep a pair of my father’s old leather boots in the back of my closet, the soles worn thin on the outer edges from the way he used to lean into his stride. They are heavy with…
The Sticky Weight of Morning
The smell of burnt sugar always brings me back to a kitchen I haven't visited in twenty years. It is a thick, golden scent that clings to the back of the throat, heavy and sweet like a secret kept too long. I remember the way the syrup would…