The buds are opening on the cherry trees, the apple trees too, though I always think they're dead like Jake until the blossoms are full and pink in the orchard. The roses are full of buds and the rhododendrons already opened. I'm most excited for the lilacs, though the buds are teeny-tiny on those, barely visible to the drugged eye unless you're right up close. Once again, I bought dwarf lilacs, and once again they grew to be eight feet and then some in as many years.
Maybe it's a sign.
But I can't read it because I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open, to the point that I didn't talk enough and Lochlan got spooked again and questioned if it was too much.
Yes, it's too mush, I agreed when I could finally pry my concrete mouth open.
Jesus Christ. But he's not talking to me. He's already figured out that maybe he can't blur the bad parts of my life like this, that he has to figure out how to weather them, a redheaded boat on a stormy sea the likes of which he's hardly experienced before. Lochlan has his own ghosts and I don't fault him for this. No one does. And he's trying so so hard and this isn't easy for anyone.
Stop it. He says it through closed hands, hands over his face. Stop. Just stop. Please.
And the Devil smiles and wicked smile and says As you wish.
There's some beautiful threshold between dulling pain and seeing miracles and I'm balancing directly on it, a tightrope of hope over despair. At the end of the rope Lochlan is there with his hands out, always, words of encouragement, support and pride. Driven to dive for me if I fall. To die for me even.
Down below (Don't look, Peanut! Look at me!) is Jacob. An audience of Jacobs. All wearing the same thing, looking up with concern but hope. Expectation. Awe. All watching the spectacle of my life to see if I can safely cross or if I'll hit the nets.
Caleb stands at the first anchor shackle and threatens to pull the pin. I can hear him shouting over the roar of the crowd of Jacobs. I can feel him threatening to send me to my dreams.
Maybe it's a sign.
But I can't read it because I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open, to the point that I didn't talk enough and Lochlan got spooked again and questioned if it was too much.
Yes, it's too mush, I agreed when I could finally pry my concrete mouth open.
Jesus Christ. But he's not talking to me. He's already figured out that maybe he can't blur the bad parts of my life like this, that he has to figure out how to weather them, a redheaded boat on a stormy sea the likes of which he's hardly experienced before. Lochlan has his own ghosts and I don't fault him for this. No one does. And he's trying so so hard and this isn't easy for anyone.
Stop it. He says it through closed hands, hands over his face. Stop. Just stop. Please.
And the Devil smiles and wicked smile and says As you wish.
There's some beautiful threshold between dulling pain and seeing miracles and I'm balancing directly on it, a tightrope of hope over despair. At the end of the rope Lochlan is there with his hands out, always, words of encouragement, support and pride. Driven to dive for me if I fall. To die for me even.
Down below (Don't look, Peanut! Look at me!) is Jacob. An audience of Jacobs. All wearing the same thing, looking up with concern but hope. Expectation. Awe. All watching the spectacle of my life to see if I can safely cross or if I'll hit the nets.
Caleb stands at the first anchor shackle and threatens to pull the pin. I can hear him shouting over the roar of the crowd of Jacobs. I can feel him threatening to send me to my dreams.