Bound – by Liz Evans

She arrived early to register for class, this frothy little thing, squeezed tight into bamboo and Lycra, blowing into my Sunday session with the first snap of spring. New to yoga, clearly a stranger to self-discipline with her chatting and chirruping and lack of condition, her needs were obvious: containment, order, flexibility, strength. But when she gave me her name, I buckled. The pure white shock of it, after all these years, blinding me for a second; the knot of grief, loss and fury tightening.