Some nights, Parvati wondered how am I supposed to do this?
“I will be brave,” she’d whisper. By the time she woke up in the morning, her pillow would have dried.
This is bravery. Sometimes just breathing is bravery. Remembering them. Never give up. Never give them up.
Parvati was so much more than brave, but this was where she started, this is where she would always start. She gave herself a place to stand: trampled, solid ground at the very center of her.
I will be brave.
So let’s talk about bravery. Let’s talk about the girl crying outside the closed door of the Room of Requirement because she is not sure she wants to know what she needs, because she is not sure she deserves to need things.
Let’s talk about ownership. Lavender painting on her face in wartime, Padma painting every space she’s ever lived in, every space but her own skin.
Let’s talk about phoenixes, about fires you cannot put out: reborn, slain, reborn, but the same bird. Phoenix tears heal—their tears. Let’s talk about how the thing that transforms death into something more is grief.
- from “silly: in defense of parvati patil (in memory of lavender brown)” (Ao3)
