My second class is more beginner-oriented, so I’m a little worried my mind’s going to wander more than in the last one, but because I have to give so much more individual attention and feedback to the participants, I manage to stay out of my own head for most of the class. And probably for similar reasons, it passes even faster than the last one did.

By the time we’re cleaning up and putting all the materials away for the night, I’m exhausted. Most of my days are long between school and yoga, but with everything else going on and the test taking it out of me earlier, I’m more worn down than usual at this point in the day.

I can’t wait to get home and curl up with Ralph, so I tell everyone good night and wait for them all to leave before I do one final sanitation pass and lock up the building to start going through my nightly closing routine. I’m double checking the following day’s class schedule on the computer in the office when my phone rings in my purse.

I reach for it absently and hold it up to check who’s calling—and my stomach knots when I see my mother’s name and face on the screen. I know why she’s calling, and I’ve been dreading it all day long even as I’ve been expecting it. Still, I swipe to answer and cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, keeping my voice light.

“Hi, sweetheart. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. Just closing up at the yoga studio. How are things with you?”

My mother sighs, and my stomach clenches. Here it comes. “I’m as okay as I can be, given what day it is.”

I nod, my throat tight. It’s been ten years to the day since we lost Casey, my twin brother, but it still feels so fresh that I honestly don’t think any words will ever be enough to take the sting out of this anniversary for any of us.

Mom, Dad, and I have all found our own ways to cope or distract ourselves over the years, but I feel like it’s been the hardest on them. I usually just throw myself into work or school, so I don’t have to think or talk about it—and that’s a big part of the reason why I’ve been going nonstop today.

The familiar weight of loss settles over me like a shroud. Ten years, and it still feels like yesterday. A part of me was severed the day Casey died, and I’ve never quite figured out how to function without it.