It was fifteen full hours until we returned last evening, and while I was glad I went, in order to spend so much time with Benjamin, I was relieved to be home. Relieved to find my way in the dark through the rooms upstairs and into the arms of Lochlan, who pulled both of us down into his dreams alongside him and there we remained until the sun came up again today.
He and Ben have settled into an overtly-close affection once again. It's possibly a more welcome sight than any other as Ben sometimes feels left out, sometimes feels like he screwed things up even as I tell him he didn't but I wished I could have given him everything he deserves.
You do. Present-tense. A gift.
And sometimes Lochlan feels shoved to the side in my rush to fill my moments with as much affection as I can possibly find, with whomever will give it, even as I tell him it doesn't matter, or that it's his fault in that he raised me this way.
I know, he reminds me softly, generously. But today is mine, he threatens, lips against my forehead. You two aren't going anywhere today.
It's wishful thinking. Ben has a regular meeting. He takes Duncan. I don't go though. I'll stay home with Lochlan and do a little errant gardening while he works on the camper. I'll pick raspberries and eat them where I stand, I'll cut back grapevines but not where there are grapes, I'll stand and wonder why the apple trees produce so little even after I have given them so much love. Maybe if the day runs very long I'll venture into the studio and look at my empty canvas and plan a painting that's very far off because the last one took a lot out of me.
Maybe it won't be so hot today. Maybe we'll swim in the pool. Maybe PJ left some olives in the fridge. And maybe some champagne. Maybe the devil will come out and join us for lunch. Maybe pigs will fly past the point and taunt me from the air for this one perfect day. Maybe things will be better. This side of the bed holds so much promise when I get up from it. Cross your fingers.
