I heard a thud. I ran to her room shouting "mama?!" No reply, but when I rounded the corner I found her awkwardly jammed between her door and the closet; something between the full locust and the camel pose, for those who know anything about yoga. I don't. I just looked it up. She looked like a fish. No, a whale. They way they flip back after jumping from the water. She was bent the wrong way, her head facing the ceiling and mashed against the door, her body curved backward so that the front of her hips rested on the floor, her feet behind her against the closet. I thought for sure she had broken her back--it didn't seem a survivable position for a healthy person, let alone someone so weak. I was able to lay her down, but on her stomach, and she refused to move. She wouldn't or couldn't tell me where the pain was. She turned on her side and let out a raspy sigh. Her eyes were glazed and she was staring at a point past the wall, not uncommon. In that moment, though, I truly thought she had died. I thought she had died contorted like a dolphin yogi after falling in her room when I was twenty feet away.
Image: Caspar David Friedrich's "Wanderer above the Sea of Fog," 1818. This is how I'd like to feel.