My grandmother’s jade pendant has never left my throat—a small piece of her soul I carry wherever I go. I was raised on poetry, calligraphy, and the soft ache of a guzheng string, and I still believe in the kind of love they write sonnets about.
My grandmother’s jade pendant has never left my throat—a small piece of her soul I carry wherever I go. I was raised on poetry, calligraphy, and the soft ache of a guzheng string, and I still believe in the kind of love they write sonnets about.
I keep a journal under my pillow, verses I’m too shy to read aloud. I dance the way the wind moves through willow leaves—quietly, but with intention. I’