golden hour

It was dazzling, just like the pieces of jewelry, and enchanting and dreamy, like how a child feels about her play when she’s safe and discovering the world on her own terms. It was a light only possible in make-believe worlds, and yet, there it was, as earthly as steam rising from dinner cooking on my grandmother’s stove...

tiny things

Maybe this is why I hang onto my rocks: they’re the parts of myself I know are true, and that I secretly love, like how I feel on the top of a mountain or along a stream bed. They remind me of my smallness, and that when I’m sad and the world is sad, there’s beauty out there, existing all the time. Plus, they’re just lovely to look at...

shades of teal

My arms can remember the effort it took to heave open the thick front doors of her house with my small body, and my hands the cold, tacky feel of the wood banister that led to the second floor. Even though they’re the farthest away, most of my memories are of being a child in that big house surrounded by tall people...