I think it was halfway through Happy Christmas (War is Over) because it's easier to trade lines on and sing with colds than Walking in the Air, when I looked at Lochlan and realized what they're doing.
They're drugging him too.
There's no light in his eyes. He's level and calm and vaguely detached and very reasonable.
I've never known him to be this way and I've known him since he was thirteen years old.
***
With a week to go I finished the wrapping and I think I'm ready. I'll do a little baking next week if I feel up to it. This cold has taken over and I feel like I'm drowning in between being stabbed in the throat and eyes. PJ feels my forehead this morning and tried to excuse me from caroling but I said I would go. God knows what Sam would make me do if I bailed on this too. I'm not sure what he was thinking having me go hang out in a hospice environment for the morning. Maybe he thought I would appreciate the fact that these people mostly know they are so close to death they could just reach out and touch it but here, have some fake Christmas-Stranger-Cheer anyway, because you know, it'll make Sam feel better.
Or something like that.
***
Santa was on the beach this morning in the pouring rain. Wringing out his hat, dumping jellyfish and seawater out of his big black boots, using the rocks for balance. Clearly he waited for low tide to swim over.
It says here on my list (he holds up a soggy piece of paper with ink running in rivulets down the page) that you've been naughty this year. You've got a week to get your name moved to the other list. Time is running out, Bridget.
I think I'll take my knocks this year. Thank you all the same.
What would you have asked had things turned out differently?
The same thing as always. Bring my ghosts back to life and I'll never want for anything else.
It's still a dangerous request and I somehow doubt you're any closer to having it fulfilled?
Hard to get an audience with God if I can't even stay on your Nice list, now, isn't it?
There's always next year, dear Bridget. But in the meantime, I need something to record here in case your circumstances change.
How about you look after my boys? Keep them safe, keep them happy. That would be a wonderful gift.
He writes a whole six letters and then smiles at me.
That was fast. You using Santa-Shorthand these days?
No, I simply wrote 'Ditto" because that's what each and every one of them asked for, for you.
