A small press of one
Essays, stories, and the occasional ridiculous book about dachshunds. Writing from the space between science, industry, and everyday life.
On a full beach in August, nobody is looking at the water. They are looking at each other, at their books, at the cooler, at the children digging. Thousands of people, and the sea is just the background.
Em português: Um Minuto com Pé
Every Portuguese child learns what saudade means long before learning to spell it. It means missing. Missing a person, a place, a time that won't come back, missing with more weight than the English verb can carry. The dictionaries say much the same, a melancholy feeling brought on by absence, and for most of a life that definition holds without anyone thinking to check it. The word lives on the side of the hole. Some of us have even put it in writing, as the word for those who wait.
Em português: O Que a Saudade Guarda
This essay starts in a museum and ends in an operating room. It's about what art conservators and transplant teams have in common: the work of caring for something irreplaceable while it's between lives, done by people whose names are never on the wall.
