His singing voice kicks into my head every time I stop moving. I've washed all the curtains, radically trimmed the huge tea-rose bushes around the back side of the backyard gate and pet the dog so hard I might have worn a hole in his fur, if not for PJ whisking him out of my arms and telling me I was in need of a good drink or maybe something even better.
I tried that too. I went to Duncan. Then a night at August's. Then I kept Lochlan and Ben up all night the next night and then I ended up with Caleb because Lochlan and I are going away later this week and he won't see me for a few days so he wanted time.
It doesn't work, PJ. Pour the drink.
Get a grip on it, Bridge. It's just the time of year.
Yes. I know it is. The weather turns cold and dark and rainy. The trees blow hard against their roots, surrendering their leaves the sky and to the earth. The pavement is slick and reflective. The heater comes on. The dog burrows in closer to the abandoned blanket someone left on the couch and my mind instantly flicks a switch on a mechanism slowed by rust from a million oceans of tears.
The hard part is I don't know what he's singing, and so I catch myself listening. That's always how he ropes me in and one of the reasons I can never get too far from him. Time is not distance, it's just time. Space is meaningless because he follows. Trips are good for fun restaurants and distractions and I think I'll be okay but he'll still be singing, just out of earshot.