I did a grounding yoga today, and I felt steady. I was sat on my bed, sun streaming in as I languidly moisturised my legs. When I sat up and looked out of the window, which is often slightly ajar, I could hear the distant sound of a jackhammer, and I was transported to the sunny afternoons of my early childhood.
I have this one particular memory, though sometimes I wonder if it’s a dream or a string of random moments and feelings stitched together in my mind and produced to me as a memory. Anyway, it’s fuzzy, but there are two women: the first I cannot remember; the second is my grandmother, slim but firm and dark, sat on the veranda that surrounds our family home.
My younger brother and I have been playing in the sun, with other kids, I think, but I’m not sure. We’ve also had lunch, probably something with matooke. My grandmother is trying to corral us for naps, but we are resisting because, of course, we don’t need naps—we are grown and want to play. I remember a few moments before I succumbed to sleep, with my eyelids heavy and opening slower with each blink, thinking, I’m so tired.
When I think back, I remember a fuzzy, warm stillness, where all that mattered—all that existed—was that moment because there was nothing else. Completely calm, entirely safe, and loved. I was younger than seven.
THE EVOLVING KIND 