Shmi placed the old bones in the bowl and let her mind go blank; an old form of future-casting, something passed down to her from her mother, her mother's mother, and ever mother hence.

Is my Anakin alright? she asked the bowl; she closed her eyes and held up her hand, and did not let it rest until she felt the bones clatter back into the bowl.

They were arranged crossed; she relaxed -- for the time, he was far from her, but he was safe, and that was enough.