We never did have our first fight, the one everyone warned us about. I guess we'll never know how we'll handle it now.
You have my heart with you, Jo. And I wouldn't want it to be anywhere else.
I spent the first week or so being pretty numb; I can't say I even remember the first few days except for bits of the meeting with the funeral director. Work the later half of the week was a blur too.
On Saturday, I heard back from the funeral director since I had inquired about the death certificate; she let me know that the hold-up was that her physician hasn't addressed it yet--even though I had personally called his office on Tuesday to let him know it was coming.
I got furious. Like, smash-a-cleaver-into-the-back-of-his-head furious. I resolved I would go there in person on Monday (today) and get it taken care of 'or else'. And for the rest of the day, and the night, I really couldn't stop being enraged about it. My soul felt blackened.
Then yesterday morning, something changed, and I couldn't bottle the rage anymore, so I started the oven, and I cooked all day. I don't even think it was a conscious decision. I baked Morning Glory Muffins. I baked a loaf of rye bread. I roasted a chicken and some asparagus. I poured all of that angry, Fiery energy into the hearth, and at the end, I felt peaceful again, if still grieving. (Also pleasantly full.) It was cathartic. Maybe this is at the heart of what it really means to be a Kitchen Witch.
"But wait," you must be thinking. "You cooked with angry energy? What happened to 'cooking with intent?' You said you were feeling murderous! Didn't you just make a bunch of cursed food then??"
Maybe you weren't thinking that. But I struggled with it. I'd been struggling with it, all week--how am I ever going to cook again, if I'm not cooking for her?
And I think, this is what I finally realized, while I was figuring out what to do with a white-hot bottle of rage. The anger doesn't have to be anger, it's an aspect of something else--all the anger was really just protectiveness of Jo, no different than if someone had blown her off for a week while she were living, except magnified by the grief. And the protectiveness is also an aspect of something else; it is an aspect of my love for her.
So, once simmered down into its pure form, it is really my love for Jo that is cooked into the food.
I like this, because I am realizing that this is how I can go on. I can still cook for her, even if I share the food with someone else, or no-one else. My undying love for her will be Crafted into every dish I make.