The cardboard boat tiptoed on the edge of the pond.
Stitching together old raincoats, his mother had whispered stories of submerged kingdoms.
He never knew how to swim, but the kings beneath his cardboard throne would have felt right at home.
Memory No. 42: The taste of bitter coffee grinds on cold mornings.
He imagined the waves crashing in distant shores, far beyond his frost-locked room.
Perhaps it was her laugh in the market, brushing by the scent of dried fish and halved limes.
She turned to him once, just once, and then was gone. A ripple in a tide of anonymity.
Penny sweets, all sweetness charred by the pressing kitchens of borrowed summers. See more paths
The shadows of yesterday's oranges rolling underfoot amidst the wrinkled smiles and rice powder dust.
Their edges softened by the hand of evening dew.
Rustling palms whispered promises of dreams lingering just beyond doorways.