The Weight of Color
We carry the summer inside us like a stone. It is a heavy, warm thing, kept against the cold that inevitably returns. In the north, we learn early that light is a visitor, not a resident. It arrives with a promise, stays for a season, and then…
The Weight of Silence
I keep a small, smooth stone in my pocket, pulled from a riverbed I haven't visited in twenty years. It is cold to the touch, a heavy reminder of a place where the water moved faster than my thoughts ever could. We carry these fragments because…
The Geography of Leaving
There is a specific silence that follows a departure, the kind that settles into the upholstery of a car seat long after the passenger has stepped out. I remember the way the air felt in the passenger seat of my father’s old sedan—the smell…