Chapter 6: The Food of the Soul

Thus began my second week of separation. The routine of desperation gave way to a routine of survival, to small steps that felt like climbing Everest barefoot, but were mine. They were no longer wandering walks; now they were conscious trips to the supermarket with a purpose.

I started preparing my breakfast, lunch and dinner. He no longer ate out of inertia or biological obligation. My breakfasts became a colorful ritual: chopped fresh fruits, cereals, cold milk, natural juices and toast. Just enough for me, perfectly measured to feed a body that refused to let itself die. At lunch I cooked whatever I wanted, without censorship, without thinking about whether someone else would find it very spicy or very simple. The dinner followed the same rule of absolute freedom.

And if at the end of the day there was still courage and life in my legs, I would have my glass of wine and go down to the beach in the evenings. Just one drink. I wasn't looking to get drunk to numb my brain, but to allow the sweetness of the wine to remind my throat as a lukewarm reminder: there is still life. There is so much to discover out there, so much to find out about myself, and so much to learn from this world that keeps spinning despite my shipwreck.

He almost always dined there, with his feet close to the shore, trying to revive on the sands of that Norwegian beach. When the icy wind hit my face violently, forcing me to close my eyes, I felt like I could finally breathe. The air entered my lungs clean. It didn't hurt so much anymore. The wound was healing. So soon? I was scared of speed, but the body and mind have their own miracle times.

... And every day, without fail, in the same place as always, he was. Now he sat on the sand, accompanied by his eternal thermos, his book and something else that distance did not allow me to decipher clearly. It had become a constant in my landscape, a mute beacon in the midst of my storm.