Other mourners impart their grief wisdom upon her, words she knows are meant to comfort but instead stoke her anger like hot breath. When she can’t tolerate any more, she slips out the back door, leans against the side of the house, and lights a cigarette. If one more person tells her “everything happens for a reason,” she might have to kick every last one of them out of her house.

She pulls a deep drag. Her thoughts drift back to Janet, her words about God’s faithfulness, God’s plan, God never giving a person more than they can handle. How can she reconcile her brother’s suicide with any of that?

Anger rises, hot and fast, like a line fire up her spine. No, not anger: rage. Like a blaze. She exhales smoke. It needs some direction, this inner fire, someplace to go, beyond her fleshy carapace. Somehow it needs to be released, before she is forced to go back inside, and get filled up again.

Without another thought, she flips the direction of the cigarette, opens her left hand, and presses the fiery end into the centre of her palm. It burns, sears, singes. She cloaks her eyes. Focuses on the pain, the sharp rise and taper like a bell curve. This pain she can manage. This pain she knows she deserves. Then she opens her eyes. Glances at the fresh scar with little interest. For now, the Blaze has been subdued.

Nirav will be wondering where she is. She stamps out the cigarette, kicks the butt into the cedars, and tucks her hand into the sleeve of her cardigan.

The last of the mourners finally depart a few hours later. Almost instantly, her parents disappear into their bedrooms; her mother, with Sunil’s ashes tucked under her arm. Nirav helps with the clean-up, then goes downstairs to play video games.

Kavita flops on the couch, relishing the blessed solitude, and at last gives in to little weights that seem swept along her lashes. When she opens her eyes again, it is as dark in the living room as it is outside. She checks the time on her cell. Unbelievably, it tells her it’s after seven.

She rubs at an ache in her neck, remembering the Band-Aid on her palm with a sharp wince. As she cradles her hand, she looks around the room lazily. Bouquets cover nearly every table surface in the living and dining rooms. The abundance of blooms is an unusual sight for their household. Sunil was allergic to flowers. Her mother, too. Her father would rather plant marigolds in the garden than pluck their lifeforce from the earth. The flowers, however well-meant, are clearly out of place in their home. Almost to the point of obscenity.