You booked it in a panic, if you remember. Three days you could not really afford, at a place with too many vowels in its name, because you were sure something inside you had come loose and this was where people went to tighten it.
You will not remember a single pose.
What you will keep is the third morning. The instructor said something about breathing that you have long since forgotten, and you stopped listening, and instead you watched the light come across the floor in that big wooden room. Dust in it. Somebody's forgotten water bottle glowing amber on the sill. The woman next to you, a stranger, breathing slightly too loud, and how you did not find it annoying, which for you at that time was a small miracle.
You thought you were there to fix yourself. You spent so many years convinced you were a problem to be solved.
You were just tired, sweetheart. That's all it was. You were tired and you needed to lie on a floor in the morning light and have nobody want anything from you for one hour.
I would tell you it works, the retreat, but not the way you hoped. You come home the same person. The looseness stays loose. But you will get to keep that room, the dust, the amber bottle, forever, and you did not even try to remember it. It just stuck.
So on the last morning, when they ring the little bell and everyone gets up too quickly to check their phones, stay down another minute. Not for your back. For me.
I am still lying there, and I would like the company.