The Weight of a Season
Why do we insist on capturing the things that are meant to vanish? There is a peculiar melancholy in the way we try to hold onto summer, as if by freezing a moment of abundance we could somehow stall the inevitable turning of the leaves. We…
The Sweetness of Stolen Time
My grandmother kept a chipped ceramic bowl in the pantry that was reserved for nothing but summer berries. She didn’t care for recipes or measurements; she simply waited until the fruit was heavy enough to pull the branches toward the earth.…
The Weight of Gray
The air tastes of wet iron and old soot, a metallic film that settles on the back of the tongue before you even realize you are breathing it in. It is a heavy, humid thickness that clings to the skin like a damp wool blanket, smelling faintly…