I wake inside the waking.
My room holds the exact weight of my everyday bedroom: bed, familiar angles, the soft authority of “morning.” An intuition nudges me up as if someone touched the back of my mind with a fingertip and said: pay attention.
From the bathroom doorway, my dear relative appears, one of my recurring dream-symbols, a loved presence that moves through my nights like a quiet stamp of lineage. She carries kettlebells.
Two of them.
