When I think of home, I think of how the sounds and emotions of a place become natural, so much so that anything else feels foreign at first.Read More
I watch all the people around me in various stages of life and happiness and suddenly realize that I am one in the mix of them.Read More
In time, home bleeds into all the things and people you love.Read More
Sometimes I wonder if the people we lose will forever live in us.Read More
When I was little, our family would go boating on Lake Michigan. Summers blend together in my mind—fishing on the edge of the dock out front, catching frogs with my bare hands, listening to the cricket lullabies.Read More
How do you know what will become a memory? A single moment, sitting at the corner seat of a wooden table in the downstairs classroom of library, your papers spread across the desk, handwriting liquid and frantic. How do you know that in six months you will still remember this?Read More
The art of forgetting is not to forget, but to remember. To remember a soft hand on your cheek, the way an eyelash twitched or brushed against skin. To go back to all the places that pull tenderly at your heart, to trace words written in faded ink on crinkled paper. The art of forgetting is not to forget, but to remember. To remember the hollow echo of that voice, listen to the shadowy whispers of lost laughs. Then hold those memories, fragile, in an open palm. Breathe. Then close them into a protective fist.