by Hayley Russell
I come from the hush of cold mornings,
the kind where silence grows like frost
along the edges of windows
thin, breakable, waiting for light.
My mother’s voice cracked open rooms,
a stormfront gathering in the doorframe,
yet she’d pause, let the hinges breathe,
and show me how to listen for smaller truths:
the house exhaling after long-held worry,
snow brushing its apology against the glass.
I learned to live between their weather,
half sunbeam, half lightning strike,
a map of contradictions
folded carefully into skin.
And even now,
I feel them in every choice I make,
the warmth I offer,
the storms I swallow,
the frost that loosens
only when someone dares
to touch the glass.