The room was cold. The kitchen was cold. I was too slow.

The retreat center was in the mountains. The sit was ninety minutes — a duration I knew and did not look forward to. I had been late. Late to the hall.

I breathed. The machine kept its books. I breathed. Minute nine: the email I had not sent. Minute twenty-two: the face I had made. Minute forty: whether they had noticed the face. I breathed. The grievances were very organized. Very thorough. I breathed. The bell.

The hall was full of people putting on shoes. Someone said something and someone else laughed. I noticed I did not need to respond to it. Not as a decision. Just as a fact.

She got up. Her knees hurt. She found a thermos that wasn't empty and poured a cup and went outside.

Two birds were arguing in a tree. They stopped. They had been arguing before she got there.

— Tara Grace