One of these days, the some-teenth of mid to late July, five years ago, I clumsily rode my bike 6 miles to work with two yoga mats awkwardly harnessed on my back. All day I tried to recruit a partner for that evening’s 7pm yoga celebration in Grant Park. You were on my mind as a potential candidate. Yet, lacking your cell number, and lacking any information about you (besides your name and our shared dedication to the noon yoga class twice a week at the health club) I didn’t consider that it would be you lying beside me on the extra space I carried that day. Then there you were; happily heading down the stairs to the group exercise room, just as I was about to leave the club and pedal to the park alone. I told you I had a mat with your name on it, but really it had my name on it. It was the first day that I held space for you. I carried it until I found you, then rolled it out and you occupied it so perfectly. Now, what is mine is yours. You were always heading here, this was always meant for you. Looking back, who’s to say what name was on it in the first place?


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