In those cold January days, early in the year of the answers, she practiced holding her own soul.
At dawn, at dusk, fully. She kept an eye on it all day long. Whenever it murmured or whimpered she stopped to hold it, the way a mother does a new born. She acknowledged it smiling and smiled back.
Those weeks were long. Days on end, she cleaned everything up, threw everything out, but on the inside, she fixed nothing. Instead, she sat with her soul, the way you do, sipping a cup of tea with your best friend. Often, almost always, no words were said. But everything, everything was felt