A body that remembers: An intimate chronicle of a night

There are nights when the soul undresses through the skin… and the body, like a wounded flower, begins to remember.

Last night I couldn’t sleep. Not from insomnia, not from habit. It was my body.

That body I no longer forget, no longer mistreat, no longer betray.

That body that is now speaking to me… and remembering.

It remembered every touch, every wound, every abandonment.

And not with resentment, not with rage… but with living memory.

Because the body is the silent diary of everything we could never write in words.

And last night, it wrote itself—in sighs, in tremors, in a cry held within the muscles.

It was asking me for tenderness. It was asking me for presence.

It was asking me to stay. So, I sat with it. I spoke to it.

I caressed it as if it were a small girl who had been silenced for years.

And I realized: it wasn’t about healing; it was about listening.

My body isn’t broken. It was only waiting for me to return. And I did return—like one who goes back to the garden of her childhood, with new hands and a willing soul.

With deepest love: Yirka Gonzalez