The Kettlebells at the Bed’s Edge, and the Green Exit

Stomari

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.