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The smell of sun-baked wood is a heavy, dry thing. It clings to the back of the throat like dust kicked up by a passing horse, tasting faintly of resin and ancient, parched earth. I remember pressing my palm against a wall just like this once, feeling the splintered ridges of the grain bite into […]
To descend is not always to fail. There is a quiet, deliberate courage in the way a leaf detaches from the branch, surrendering its hold on the sky to embrace the earth. We spend so much of our lives clinging to the high places, fearing the gravity that pulls us toward the soil, yet it […]
In the quiet hours of the afternoon, when the sun leans long against the walls of a house, objects begin to take on a life of their own. A coat draped over a banister, a pair of shoes left by the door—they become vessels for the people who are not there. We tend to think […]