The 6 a.m. kettle is my new barre

Took myself back to the studio this morning — not the old one, just the empty living room and a kettle boiling. I set the teapot down where the barre used to be and ran through a slow port de bras, just to see what the body still knows. It knows more than the grief lets on. Somewhere between the first stretch and the whistle, the room stopped being a loss and became a stage again.