(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Weight of a Hand
The blue wool sweater my father wore is gone, donated to a bin years ago, but the specific weight of his hand on my shoulder remains a phantom limb. It is not the memory of the touch that haunts me, but the sudden, hollow realization that the…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Weight of a Sunday Table
I keep a small, tarnished silver fork in my drawer, its tines slightly bent from years of pressing into soft fruit and shared meals. It belonged to a kitchen that no longer exists, a place where the air always smelled of citrus and salt, and…
The Art of Starting
I burned my toast this morning. It was a small, charred mistake, the kind that usually makes me sigh and reach for the trash bin. But instead, I sat down with my tea and looked at the plate. I realized how rarely I actually look at what I am…