The house after everyone is asleep — a slow story for the end of the day, after eating too much — for a racing mind

Outside, a car goes past and its headlights sweep across the ceiling, then are gone. The fridge hums on and off in the kitchen, and that is the loudest thing in the building. Everyone went to bed an hour ago, and the house has stopped making the sounds it makes during the day.

The curtains are not quite closed, and there is a thin line of streetlight along the wall. There is a chair by the window that nobody sits in during the day. The clock in the hallway ticks slightly behind the one in the kitchen.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel your wrists loosen.

Your chest can be still now. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

A glass of water sits on the table, half finished. There is nothing left on the list for today.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.

Just the weight. Slower now. Slower.

Do this sitting up, not lying down, if you have just eaten.

Let this be the last thing you listen to.