In my sleep, I descend the stairs and you rush past me, telling me to hurry up, people are downstairs and they are waiting for us. I’m confused, my jaw opening and closing like the door you just came through; swinging on its hinge at a loss at your presence.
My locket became an important talisman for me to wear when grief crushed the life out of me. The subtle gold heart became an important symbol that my mum existed, and that once I was happy. My locket became my mum’s way to witness my life as I lived it.
I decided I enjoyed being bad at yoga. Of course, I was bad at yoga. I’m a clumsy girl. Yoga is reserved for a different type of elegance, one I can’t even begin to harbour.