The back that finally complained

It started as a dull line above the hips after long mornings at the desk, the kind of ache you negotiate with by shifting in the chair and promising yourself a walk. Then the line became a voice. Standing up from the table one Thursday I made a sound I did not intend to make and had to stay bent for a second like someone receiving bad news. Years of hunching over drafts and notebooks had apparently kept a ledger.

The physiotherapist’s room smelled of disinfectant and the rubber of exercise bands. I wore the sort of clothes that admit you expect to be asked to touch your toes. She pressed along the lower spine, asked me to walk, to bend, to describe the pain without poetry. I failed at the last part once and then tried again in plainer words. She was kind in a brisk way and unimpressed by my theories about chairs.

I left with a printout of stretches that look simple until you are on the floor attempting them between emails. Knees, breath, hold, release. None of it is dramatic. None of it photographs well. I taped the sheet inside a cupboard door so I would see it when I reached for a glass, which worked for four days and then became furniture.

I still forget. I remember when I stand too fast or when the shortwave is on and I have been still too long in one position. Maintenance is an unsexy plot: no villain, no cure, only repetition I keep meaning to respect. Tonight I did the sequence on the rug before tea. My back did not thank me in words. It simply hurt a little less, which I am choosing to count as conversation.