38
I arrive at Branches an hour early on purpose. Rhonda’s Sunday afternoon students are long gone, but the lights are on, and the girl at the desk smiles at me over the top of her magazine.
“I live too far away to go home,” she explains, “so I’m waiting around for the next class to start.”
“Is it okay if I set up my stuff?”
“Totally.” She returns her attention to the Kardashians.
As soon as I’m alone in the empty studio room, I unroll my yoga mat, sink to my knees, settle my hips back onto my heels, and cry until my mat is soaked. I haven’t ever grieved like this before—from a place of finality and acceptance. Yet, in the safe and sheltered space of Child’s Pose, I find the soft solace of my breath and focus on inhaling and exhaling until the words I need to say come to me.
Through
