(This day is brought to you by Between the Buried And Me's cover of Blind Melon's Change.)
Two people aren't happy about my penchant for waking up in strange places, like I did yesterday, though a suspended king-sized bed in the middle of a bright airy room isn't as strange as it is exhilarating, and they're not the people you'd expect.
The first is the Devil, who thinks he should carry carte blanche on any nocturnal attempts at comfort that I wish for, and the second is August, who continually kicks himself for allowing me past his head into his heart. Into his hands. He thinks he should hold himself at arm's length and be objective, productive and effective.
Naw, I tell him. You're effective alright, just not in the way you think.
And the part of me that needs the ghost that is Jake quiets just a little, probably taking a breather before spooling up hard in time for the week after next.
Because it's anniversary week and birthday week (9. 46.), a time when I am reminded that I'm not as wonderful as I think I am, or anyone thinks I am, but I was just enough to send him on a one-way trip to anywhere I wasn't. That I am too much and not enough and as impossible as Lochlan always says I am. That I was too dark for Jacob and not enough of anything else to be worthwhile.
It's not you, it's me, Jacob always tells me through a fine filter of swirling, settling dust motes in the light through the garage doors. But we sure make beautiful children. That's a gift.
I nod and leave him there. Too bad it wasn't enough of a gift to keep your feet on the ground.
