
Half Like Home
Something shifted before the wheels left the ground, barely noticeable, as if what was familiar had already begun to recede. What lay ahead had no clear shape yet,…

Something shifted before the wheels left the ground, barely noticeable, as if what was familiar had already begun to recede. What lay ahead had no clear shape yet,…

Twenty-six hours in one place. A place meant for passing through. Lines hold. Bodies stay. Seats fill and empty, then fill again. No place to rest a head.

a poem by Kerry Ann Wiley The hours move forward, interrupted by brief, unspoken turns that linger longer than they should. The scenes arrive in sequence: dusk against…

The light above the stove flickers when she touches the switch. It always does—once, twice, then a low buzz before it stays on. The bulb is new. The fixture is not.

The conference room was already warm when Michael arrived—the kind of warmth that comes from screens, lights, and equipment running long before anyone enters.
Immigration enforcement and public service systems such as education, health care, and disability support often function independently, but in the lives of many families, they overlap in complex ways.

Some experiences are recognized only after behavior changes. The first indications appear as small, sensible adjustments made to keep daily demands manageable.

The security line advances beneath fluorescent lights. Everything is arranged for flow. People move forward, belongings slide along belts, and decisions are made quickly to keep the system in motion.

A house can be quiet without feeling peaceful. Chairs remain exactly where they were last placed. Doors close completely. Nothing seems out of place. Brick without Cover begins with nothing visibly amiss.

Time does not move evenly. Some years leave only a trace, while others settle into the objects that are handled again and again. Holiday decorations are among them, brought out, arranged, lived with, then taken down and packed away, growing more delicate and more marked by time.