Sole Custody

I practiced from a book. Early mornings before count.

Hands flat. Spine long. Forward fold. Downward dog. Warrior. Triangle. In through the nose, out through the noise. Impersonating the photographs as best I could.

When I got out, I kept at it. Never the same studio twice.

I’d show up early, check the room the way you check a room — exits, threats, who’s watching — unroll my cheap plastic mat. Be nobody for an hour. Leave before anyone could ask my name.

One bitter evening in March, I drove out farther than usual. Small farm town. Feed store. Two bars. A gas station with two pumps out of order.

The yoga place sat between a laundromat and a beauty shop with dark windows. A hand-painted sign hung above a narrow entrance.

The instructor greeted us at the door. A woman about fifty. Sun-browned, wind-creased. Hands nicked and paint-stained. Eyes the color of frozen ponds that took you in without flinching.

She smiled but didn’t speak. Motioned for us to arrange our mats around a small cluster of votive candles she’d centered on the narrow hardwood strips.

Soft music. Wood flute. Bell tones. Wind chimes. All without words.

She dimmed the lights.

We moved through the postures slowly.

Hinge at the hips. Knuckles pale against the mat. Draw one knee to the chest. Plant. Press. Lunge. Reach. Hold.

Ghostly shadows danced up the walls. Earthy aromas drifted through the room — tea tree, eucalyptus, cedar.

Crown lifted, lengthened spine, fire seared my trembling thighs. Ribs wrestled to contain my brittle, anxious lungs.

She threaded between the mats, a feather-light touch, a shoulder, small of the back, a smile, a reassuring nod.

At the end, she had us lie back. Savasana, she called it. Feet toward the center, toward the candles. Corpse pose.

My shoulder blades wobbled against the hardwood, fighting submission, before the muscles finally gave out and went flat.

I closed my eyes. Stopped listening for keys, doors, boots, voices, trouble.

I lay there and let the floor hold me.

Then, two warm drops. Body temp. Almost imperceptible. One on my left foot. One on my right.

A pause.

Then hands.

Everything in me jumped, then went stone still.

Thumbs pressed into my arches, patient, not prying. Fingers wrapped around my heels.

Slow hands, moving oil into the tops of my feet.

My feet.

She hummed as she worked the oil into my skin like she had all night to do it.

Warmth spread through the soles and pulled the rest of me with it.

I let out the air I didn’t know I’d been holding.

I put my forearm over my eyes.

Tears ran into my ears.

I didn’t try to stop it.

The instructor didn’t speak.

No sermon. No reassurance. Just her hands on my feet in a dark room in a simple town in some reimagined space.

She finished, held my heels cupped in her palms a second longer, then moved on.

Eventually, the music faded, went quiet.

I lay there staring at the ceiling. My feet still warm from her hands.

No one sat up.

No one asked if I was all right.

Not a whisper.

Stillness steadied the room. The furnace sighed. The tiny candles sizzled, spat, and hissed back.

I lay there until there was nothing left but the wet on my face and the salt at the corners of my mouth.

Lights lifted the room into a low din. Mats rolled in silence.

Several women near the door whispered as they pulled on wool socks. A bent old man crouched and slowly tied his shoes. Someone coughed. Thank yous drifted across the air.

I wiped my face with both hands and sat there a minute, looking at the dark prints my heels had left on the mat.

On the way out, the instructor smiled, pressed her palms together at her chest, dropped her eyes, and nodded once like she’d seen nothing at all.

Outside, the parking lot gravel popped under my boots. The air smelled of manure and cold dirt.

My car door creaked open. I sank into the seat. Sat behind the wheel. Watched the windshield fog at the corners, clear, fog again, go clear…

—and waited for a reason to move.

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