Laura Madison
Wilkerson

A single square mile of dust. I remember the floorboards. Scuffed wood beneath small feet. At six years old, I am pinned by an incinerating glare, searing, bleached iris of light that tracks my every exhale. Learning to wear the mask before I knew my own face. Then, the north wind called. A forced migration to a land of steep spires and a particular, heavy interpretation of scripture. Out there, they prayed in the open. Behind our doors, the silence cut like glass. Every breath became a stage direction. Every movement, a survival tactic. I lived in the seams of costumes. I hid in the architecture of shadows. This wasn't a life; it was a long, quiet performance. Now, the curtains part one last time. Look closely at the grain. The evidence is waiting in the frames below.