She spent one serene, rainy night sitting by a fire pit. It was on a whim. There was no expectation whatsoever from the agenda, except from being able to just stare blankly into the flame and let her body cradled by the swinging hammock chair. Her gaze might appear empty, but not the mind behind.
For some moments, she forgot that grieving was not only about mourning the deceased, but also about losing other things. Grief had been throwing her out of balance, engulfing her in a storm of countless (and often unrecognizable) emotions. Steve Garrigan said it took his soul and wiped it clean. Rumi exquisitely put it as a crowd of sorrows, violently sweeping your house empty of its furniture. They were true.
She had zero appetite for weeks, and food tasted bland when she ate. Although sunflowers and bouvardias bloomed during the day, she broke down the second she arrived home at night. She pushed herself to go out for an entire week only to find herself mentally and physically drained in the end. When she hit the sack, the viable option was either sleeping too late or waking up too early.
The scariest thing was that she never knew when all these would dissipate. The journey was unapologetically unpredictable, just like the fire she was staring at. It blazed and flickered every now and then in an erratic way.
