From the book of hours.

“All life is being lived. Who is living it, then?
Is it the things themselves, or something waiting inside them,
like an unplayed melody in a flute?”
— Rainer Maria Rilke

Yoga Nidra. Legs up the wall. Blood cycles down like sand slipping through an hourglass. Chest cracked open, back arched—the weight of fear and pain settling into me, like dust finding stillness. Soles together, hips falling open, calmness washing down my spinal chord. The earth beneath me, bolsters surrounding me like a pillow fort.

Savasana. Breathing deeply into the ache. Blue light flickers behind closed lids—and I feel her. A presence, a memory. A few tears slip from the corners of my eyes, cool beneath the compress, streaming behind my ears, pooling in my hair. Little rivers, salty and slow—nourishing something buried. Like seeds in rich soil, my grief begins to bloom. Something living inside me. Something missing. I miss the care of being tucked in. The goodnight story. The quiet presence of being held. My inner child still longs for it—the kind of love that waits, patient and steady, like an unplayed melody in a flute.