Confessions for a rainy Monday.
I was waiting for my hearse
What came next was so much worse
It took a funeral to make me feel alive
Just open your eyes
Just open your eyes
And see that life is beautiful.
Will you swear on your life,
That no one will cry at my funeral?
Hallo, good morning. It's Monday. Momday. A day to myself without the well-meaningsers and the only-concern-eds. I have told you I love my friends and I friend my lovers even. And no, I'm not drunk, just somewhat weirdly content today. Full of plans, full of hope, full of hopefully almost the next to last of the awful, overly-sweet cappuccino bullshit that passes for coffee today. Everyone else planned to get it on the go and Andrew didn't read my mind and bring any. Ben offered to make some but I don't think a whole pot to myself is any point noted today.
Tomorrow is April Fools. Does that mean Jacob will come back? Maybe to tell me that I failed. That I didn't wait long enough or grieve hard enough and I'm ready for that. I can just tell him I didn't start yet and then everyone can step back with their sympathetic horror and avert their eyes a little further peripherally so they aren't blinded by my amazing circus talents here. Those that involve perpetual pain and denial. He would understand me, and forgive me and then he'd probably vanish in a puff of smoke once again, for this is the stuff of dreams.
Instead Ben will replace my coffee grounds with earth and I'll get a potful of fresh-brewed mud, or maybe he'll say he has to work but spend the day at home instead, distracting me with sweetness while he sweeps the ghosts out the back door as I look the other way. He's good like that.
And he's even better with badly-kept five-year-old never-confirmed-but-long-suspected secrets. Like the ones about our tattoos and what they mean, finally admitted this weekend, publicly. The first time we went and got matching ones, his was a lowercase letter b and mine an uppercase B, both tangled up in ivy. At the time, when pressed, we both claimed to like slightly different styles and we both have names that start with a b, so why the hell not?
Cole left it with a 'to each his own' comment, since he thought art was art and as long as I was happy nothing else was important (pfft). Jacob always thought I got a B for me and then Ben got a b possibly also for me and it was one more reason for them to not like each other all that much.
In reality the big B stands for Ben, and the little b is for Bridget. We got them expressly for each other to honor this strange super-glue connection we have that holds in spite of just about everything.
Funny how things turn out.