The Stewarts Family (and other shenanigans)

Belomisian Morning

I wake up and get to work right away, documenting the rest of what there is to see on last night’s dig site. And then I’m on my way again, towards the temple, trying really hard not to think of the suspicious-sounding roar I just heard.

Pedestals and Broken Planes

I can never get enough of my omiscan adventures. Weird-looking gates, bridges above crevasses, old crashed planes, and dancing around an ancient pedestal so that no trap crushes me when I reach for its treasure.

And of course, some chests to rummage through to find a relic or two. Also, gathering all the avocados I see.

Not only does this allow me no time to let the sadness take over me, this is genuinely what I like doing best.

Back Home Again

The weather in the jungle is impossibly steamy. Even for me, who truly enjoys the warmer possible weathers, it feels like I’m cooking. So I don’t linger in my bungalow and head straight to the bar in the town center. If I’m gonna burn, I’ll do it with a fresh drink in hand!

When I exit the jungle, I’m hit by how truly stunning the warm sunlight looks, casting its rays on this place, and I linger a little bit outside, playing chess against myself by the fountain.

Easier

Finally one day I wake up, and I feel ready. Ready to clean up the piles of clothes on the floor, ready to finish that honey cake with a smile on my face, ready to work on what I love again. It’s not easy, but I make it through that day, and I know I’ll make it through the next, too.

Before going to bed that night, on a whim, I take a plane ticket to Selvadorada.

Together

Summer rolls around with its first holiday, Music Day. I’m in absolutely no mood to celebrate, but when my entire family rolls around with smiles and hugs, I feel that part of the immense weight lifts off of me. It’s been a little while since I laughed, and it feels good to toast in Gram’s memory. At the end of the day we all feel warmer, and it doesn’t have much to do with either the arrival of summer or the campfire we build.

The first days are the hardest

I don’t sleep well, and my reclaimed bedroom is getting messier by the day. I haven’t even been picking up my laundry off the ground. Let it pile up.

Gram’s last floral arrangement still sits on the living room table, fresh and in bloom. I have no inclination for gardening, no knowledge of how to make another one. I know once this one has wilted, there will be no other one. And when I pull a slice of the honey cake Gram had baked, there’s no meowing at my feet requesting that I “accidentally” drop a bite.

I hate this.