"It never appealed to me to be the same as everyone."

And when it comes to shove and I can't see you through the black
I'm going to scream your name till you come back

I realize I left you hanging back there in 2009, with Ruth about to turn ten when I was on the hunt for a replacement breadmaker.

She'll be nineteen on her next birthday. Jesus fucking Christ.

And I did get a new machine, in 2010. It's so industrial it makes three-pound horizontal loaves and is made by Black & Decker. I don't remember if I actually bought it at the hardware store but it's likely that I did. I was a little surprised to come home and realize that it didn't have to be connected to the air compressor to work, it just plugs into a standard kitchen outlet.

Now that I think of it, I suppose it's old now too, like the last one that lasted nine years. Should I start looking for a replacement? Must check and see if DeWalt or Ryobi makes them. I'll look next time we go back to the hardware store.

(I'm only kind of kidding.)

It's churning away right now, this monstrosity of a breadmaker, knocking around the counter in time with Demon Hunter. I hear nothing else. It's sort of funny. Who knew Through the Black had such a catchy beat?

Well, I did, but did Black & Decker do this on purpose?

(I'm not breaking any bottles today, so there's that. Though Joel and I went for a long drive last night, we accomplished little. I still mostly hate him but he seems the most knowledgeable at times and attributed my sudden lashing out to stress, and depression and a host of vague labels I abhor. He also said I'm not manic (for the armchair psychiatrists out there) and he's not concerned about anything else, as I have a good track record of being able to maintain a polite and thoroughly upbeat demeanor for the sake of the people around me that sometimes caves into a hole all at once. Only certain people set it off, however. Namely Caleb, which makes sense.

So I'm not going to offer him any bread once it's done baking. He can make his own.

(Also from that link, I never listened to David Cook again after that afternoon and I still haven't told you things that would make you like me more, but hate everyone else in the process so yeah. I shouldn't ever read back through this blog. Ever.)

I would hide from me too except I'm very easy to find.

Yesterday went from fun exciting office work to all-out stress and by ten I took Caleb's champagne offer, snatched the bottle from him, smashed the bottle against the rail, threatened him with the jagged glass of the neck I was holding and promptly burst into tears.

One should always be as threatening as possible while crying, shouldn't they? How do you hold and console a person who's trying to talk to you through great heaving, hitching sobs while they jab a broken bottle in your direction?

You don't. You leave it to a team who will corner and then immobilize her, take her fun new weapon and suggest she change out of her office clothes into warm pajamas and go the fuck to sleep, as the book goes.

And so she did.

I always wanted a reputation as a crazy, tough chick and yet I still don't have it. Instead this morning they're treating me like a small child. PJ made me hot chocolate for breakfast. Lochlan cut my toast into four strips, sprinkled them with cinnamon sugar and for a moment there I was worried he would try to feed me, too. They've got their kid-gloves on and they're concerned with my snappage as am I, but honestly Caleb just picked the wrong time, words and beverage and I'm fairly sure my next alcoholic drink will be served in a plastic cup, if I get a drink ever again, I mean, but really it's the end of January and shit's worse than ever but if you ask me to my face I'll tell you I'm doing just fine, though who's going to ask? Our resolution to talk for four hours a day already fell by the wayside. Or maybe they gave up.

Pretty sure Joel is on the way. Guess I can't exactly make bottlenauts while he talks, can I?

Tuesdays with Jesus (and Gayle Waters-Waters).

I was going to post a huge lengthy thing of monstrous proportions but then Sam got overwhelmed at work and needed an office manager for the day! So yippee! I got to put on a pretty dress and shoes (and a big sweater because it's freaking COLD in here and I'm still looking for the thermostat, of which Sam won't say where it is located for REASONS like the electricity/gas budget) and answer the phone and file things and organize his office and call for deliveries and schedule the shit out of everyone and oversee the continued efforts in unsticking the windows that were painted shut and should probably be sanded down, you know, if they ever get them open without breaking them.

The best parts include fielding excited/nervous wedding questions by phone and spoiling Sam rotten with bottomless coffee and decent food. In addition to stocking the kitchen I ordered Vietnamese food to be delivered for lunch. I don't think he ever has hot food unless he's home. We sat in his office watching Chris Fleming videos and snorting with laughter while we tried to navigate rice with chopsticks and it was over far too soon but he's super busy and didn't really count on just about everyone on his staff being out with the flu so there you go.

Yes, I sanitized everything. It was the first thing I did when I arrived. Went through an entire can of Lysol wipes. I may stop in on the way home and pick up a few more, just in case.

On the whiteboard it says 67 SLEEPS TIL EASTER.

No pressure, right?

Intentional shadows.

But you see it's not me
It's not my family
In your head, in your head they are fighting

I woke up with Ben's huge headphones on, my phone with three adaptors plugged in and the Cranberries on repeat because that's what Lochlan picked for me, and since he always picks the music he'll never pick metal if he can help it.

Supposedly while I slept they all trucked down to the beach for a family meeting by the sea, in the rain and wind, there out of necessity, eschewing comfort in case I walked in if they did it in the house or yard. The kids were off to school early and prepared thanks to PJ but no one woke me up as I was up very late and there you have it. I came down around nine-thirty and asked where Lochlan was and PJ says to me,

After the meeting he went for groceries with Ben. 

Well, first of all, I've got the list and second, WHAT MEETING?

Guess you weren't invited, Bridge. PJ grins at me.

Is there a body count? 

No and as an extra bonus we even talked Dalton out of leaving. He and Duncan were forced to make up and Caleb took a few hits from both of them for their ignorance.

I wouldn't call it that-

Call it whatever you want. They got their pound of flesh from Caleb and then somehow your husband wrangled it all back into a tightly-knit army. I watched him do it and I still don't know how he pulled it off. Then he decided he would look after the mornings' chores on your behalf. Text him if you need something specific that can't wait though. You know damn well all he'll buy will be bread, a roast and endless vegetables.

Aw fuck. Wait, Ben's with him?

Yeah.

Then don't fret. Ben will get the good stuff. Ben is a terrible grocery shopping but in the best way. Not only can he carry the entire load from the truck into the house without help but he can talk you into buying ice cream in bulk. So what's the verdict?

Everyone's cool. Feelings are smoothed over and Caleb has his Disney villain status fully reinstated. I think Dalton was one of the few remaining who didn't know the whole story.

Who else is left?

I don't know if anyone is left, Bridge. Maybe Gage. Andrew? Actually I don't know about that whole household, but you might want to hold your own meetings so that no one freaks out like Dalton did. This isn't the kind of thing you should keep from them, and what you've already said isn't enough.

PJ-

Times have changed, Bridget. We've changed.

Hollow wind.

I spent most of the overnight hours sitting in the library or on the front porch with Duncan, trying to soothe his wild ego, mend his close relationship with his brother through absolution, and repair whatever fractured friendship we seem to have ended up with. I didn't realize how terribly hurt he's been over some of my words and feelings, how sad he feels that I think of him the way I do, and how betrayed he would feel that I kept on, steamrolling through this point leaving a swath of broken hearts and destruction while I look for a way to fix my own broken heart and fail, every single day, over and over again.

He took it to heart, so personally he says he's different now and that's what I've always wanted and yet have always tried to avoid. I don't want them to get sucked into my gravity field but I can't see any other way to manage this.

We talked for days. He knows things about me he didn't know before, maybe. Things he's guessed at, partial truths with huge gaps now closed. I broke his heart again on purpose, with intent this time so that he would not have any lingering questions and now we start over with a new friendship, with a whole new relationship on a new level. Maybe one with all of our weaknesses and mistakes still close enough to touch but maybe he'll not be hurt by the things I do or don't do, as it were.

Why didn't you tell me everything the first time? 

Because I don't want hate to have a place here. It's a point-blank shot to the heart. It serves no purpose to make the boys enemies of each other.

Why did you lie? You said there were no secrets, Bridget, nothing left that we didn't know. 

I still love him. I still want to protect him. I want to protect you. I want to protect me. 

He doesn't deserve it. Caleb deserves nothing from any of us. 

Well, life never turns out the way you plan for it to, does it? 

No. It doesn't. The grief on Duncan's face mirrors my own.

This is what I would have spared you until the day I die. There's no reason you should have to figure out how to live with this. 

There's no reason you have to live with it alone when we're all here to help.

I really haven't been a hundred percent, fighting the flu, feeling really good at small moments and really, really awful at others. I haven't been able to listen to the entire single The Banished Heart as of yet without interruption thanks to my beautiful household. I did, however, manage to cram the entire first (and last) season of The Mist into the past three days, because why not?

It was really good. I wanted absolutely EVERYONE to die save for Frances Conroy, as always.

I went to Muji and was so thoroughly underwhelmed it was almost criminal. Also the huge pet store with all the sweet tiny dogs is gone. I knew they passed a bylaw preventing selling pets in pet stores here but I forgot and now Metropolis will be forever underwhelming too. I didn't agree with selling dogs like that but what a respite in a retail wasteland to go in and cuddle them.

Both kids are feeling better, at least. Perfect. Just in time for me to go down.

But isn't that how it always goes?

On the upside, I got a lot of things accomplished that were bothering me and still have some more issues to deal with. Namely the odd unauthorized jealousy that Caleb has flaring up because of Dalton and he isn't the only one.

Duncan's really, really pissed off.

And I don't feel well enough to fight with words. Not this week. Not today.

Banished Heart indeed. There. Got my listen-though. Gotta go. He's shouting again.

Friday.

Be right back. I'm drinking semi-bulletproof coffee, listening to the second single from The Banished Heart and ordering just about every single thing in stock from Ewa i Walla while the Salish sea roils and churns in the rain.

Damn. What a beautiful day.

Clap your hands.

Happiness is poison, goes the quote about writers. Songwriters, authors, anyone who creates goes under this umbrella to stay dry against the river of blood that threatens to expand our minds until we're too content to find the words, too blissed-out to put it down on paper, too fucking thrilled to get it out and make it work and twist that darkness until it sucks the air and the light from all around us.

That's how it's always been, and Lord help them, they don't know what to do with me when I'm happy or sad. The de facto state for them is protect and entertain and anything else is simply a perk, a bug or a cog in the gears that fucks the whole thing up and takes us right off the rails but so far so good. We always seem to find our way back.

It's not boy gossip you'll find today, just contentment. Sort of like how you feel when you are in on the secret that the cool kids know. And this new change isn't a change, just a curiosity fulfilled. And this new day isn't dark, it isn't light, it's muted somewhere in between, as I said. Content. Entertained. Protected.

Safe.

Poisonous.

Yeah.

Rack Ops and Good Cookies.

Neamhchiontach. 

Yes? 

I'd like a word. 

PJ stares at Caleb for a really long minute and then grabs his phone off the counter and wanders downstairs to see what Dalton is up to. I know what Dalton is up to. He was sleeping when I left. So was Lochlan and dammit if that wasn't a fun sleepover. Dammit if I didn't want to leave.

What is it? 

What have you done? 

Today? I made coffee, caught up on laundry and had the front brakes replaced on the-

With Dalton. 

No, he didn't come with me to do the brakes. PJ picked me up and-

Were you with him last evening?

Define 'with'. 

Bridget-

WHAT?

Finally I'll be seven feet tall.

(We're literally doing nothing today, so here.)

Ben let me shave his winter beard today. It's twelve degrees in the sun. It's the calm before the storm, I know it. I see it coming a mile away as we drop one by one from the flu, as the snow looms on the horizon line, just beyond the mountains, threatening to spill down past the highway, an avalanche of typical January weather anywhere else, a ridiculous unnecessary anomaly here. He's going to regret his bare cold face within days but within a week of not shaving again he'll have the start of a new disguise.

He already went for a haircut. I already decided I'm not cutting my hair in 2018. Not even once, which will be interesting as I have a pixie right now that needs a trim but also can be tousled just right thanks to the built-in heavy salt air, so it still looks cute as fuck.

Give it a couple months and I'm going to look like a maniac but I have an assortment of headbands, hats and bobby pins to wrestle it into some semblance of something and I'll leave it like that until it hits my waist again. I love cutting it all off but I miss it too. Desperately sometimes. It can be a perfect curtain of privacy anywhere I go and I've grown tired of strangers commenting (however sweetly) on my expressiveness, or my eye color or my smile, since that curtain of hair is gone.

(You would be surprised. I have one of those faces that goes from looking like I'm about to cry to the most joyous mirthful expression in the universe. It's...I mean, it's fun but it's exhausting to check my expression when I'm out so people don't ask if I'm okay. Or I'm smiling and they want in on the good news but it's something dumb, like the time I said I was going to be Pyramid Head for Halloween this coming year, from Silent Hill. The boys can be the sexy faceless nurses this time (I did that already). I'll go shirtless, wear culottes and a bloody apron, have a huge helmet on and carry a machete. Except Ben called it a 'mah-chette' with a hard ch sound and I laughed so hard coffee came out my nose. People wanted in on the laughter. It was dumb but I couldn't catch my breath long enough to even share it.)

So that's the plan.

I mean, that's the plan today but I'm just daydreaming. I want to eat pizza (without plates, straight from the box like they do in the movies), and watch the rest of Lucifer because it's so campy and profound all at once and I want to avoid Duncan just a little bit though if you offer someone Bridget, pizza and endless television Duncan just appears as if by magic, as he's one of the cuddliest laziest fuckers I've ever met.

I want to snooze but not miss anything. I want to still be able to touch a beard if I need to (PJ is willing, able and ready, or so he pointed out when Ben left for the haircut with the promise that upon his return I could give him an Amish chinstrap beard before shaving it all off. Actually once I did that he turned and made it into a weird pointy goatee and no way in hell was that staying but if you ask me? Between us he's the one with the expressive face, the striking dark eyes, the easy, subliminal half-smile, the perfect skin with no lines on it save for such faint ones around his eyes when he laughs.

That's the face people should comment on but Ben will turn away in a crowd so you're not sure it's actually him, or he'll duck beneath the edge of his jacket hood or the brim of his hat.

That's a shame.

There at the edge of the world right is returned to me, caught on the wind and tucked safely into my arms to remain. I control the weather just as I control their hearts, here by the sea.

Apologies came swiftly once again as we stumbled into yet another year, tripping over words and misguided attempts to repair or replace broken things. Broken things like hearts, minds and promises. Rainy things like moods and nights. Ugly things like jealousy and longing and loneliness.

And we fail but then we get up and run again, clutching that sharp edge so tightly we bleed our souls out so that they run together in a river, marbled, mixed, indistinguishable once more. We finish each others' sentences, comfort each other when there is no light and find that light to pass along, when necessary.

Here at the edge of the world left is the open arms, the open doors, the open minds of that marbled river, the tides rising and falling with need. The hearts breathing like lungs, rising and falling with emotions, sheared clean by that edge once again.

But they grow back.

There at the edge is where she stands. Where she bleeds. Where she cries. Where she grieves. Where she loves.

Shell Jesus.

(Now I want to go to Trolls for dinner.)

You didn't miss last week. What are you talking about? Sam's coffee breath wakes me up completely as I stand in the front hall helping him tie his Windsor knot. He'll never be pulled together. We're practically twins in that. In fact, you told me twice it was boring.

That's why I forgot. Sorry. I kiss his cheek and he heads out the door. I'm still in pajamas, about to have some coffee breath of my own. I'm not going to church, off the hook since I went last week when very few of the boys did. Sam absolved me over an early breakfast and now I'm kicking myself for getting up at all when I could have slept in. I could have slept for hours but Lochlan practically shoved me out of bed.

Go dig some clams for the Lord. 

And he laughed weakly and was asleep again before I had both my legs properly underneath me enough to walk away.

Christian, Andrew, Schuy and Danny represented the point this morning but I'm awake anyway. I make a big cup of coffee and dump some sweetened condensed milk into it before pouring the whole thing into a travel mug and heading for the door. I shrug into my wool wrap and boots and take my cup across the driveway to the stable. It's heated now and completely weathertight so I can leave my art supplies here. I have a small cupboard with a bluetooth speaker on top and all of my paints and sketchbooks are neatly organized inside.

There's a small table and chair and my easel stands in front of the south-facing windows. Lots of light, actually, and a cozy little space to have some time to myself which is something I need but somehow got used to never having as I'm perfectly happy to have someone close by to molest and touch and tickle and just be with. And so I never decompress. One of my Christmas gifts this year was the boys winterizing this, somehow without me knowing. It has electric heat now and better lighting too and I don't have to worry about the pipes for the work sink freezing ever again.

I pull out a tiny canvas board, barely six by four inches, and paint a clam for Lochlan. It's not very good, as I do it from memory but somehow it makes me feel better. They get ideas and we go and do them. I get ideas and I get made fun of. I miss spending time at the water doing things. All we do is walk and talk on the beach these days. There's no building sandcastles or collecting shells. There's rarely swimming. It's always a psychic workload. I've grown to dread the walks just because they involve so much introspection, admission and enlightenment. Ideas to try. Restoration to embark on. Penance to pay. Healing to be done.

Dreading being within touching distance of the ocean, dreading going to it, dreading being near it isn't an association I want to have, ever and I'm angry that it's come to this. I don't want to walk anymore. I'll sit in the fucking library or lie in bed and talk til I'm blue in the face if that's what you want but don't turn the only place where I can breathe into something awful.

When I'm happy with Lochlan's painting I set it aside to dry and work on some other little projects. I'm between ideas so I draw and learn and experiment. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I just putter around and think.

I would stay all day but we have plans so when my phone starts blowing up I collect my mug  and the painting and put my boots back on for the trip across the driveway. I even resent the boots today but bare feet in the winter bring shouts of disapproval and disappointed looks. When I get inside I take the painting to show Lochlan.

Made you something. 

Oh! Hey! This is great! It's a UFO! I like it. Very stylized. 

I nod, mouth set in a line and force a smile. Enjoy. 

I know it's a clam, Bridget. 

How do you know it's a clam? 

The happy face. It totally gives it away. He bursts into laughter. I love it. 

It means you don't have to take me clam-digging. We have one now. 

Jesus. If that's all it takes, paint me a show, Baby.

I can do that. 

Be a lot harder than a mollusk. 

Not really. He was difficult as fuck. I mean, look at him! He has a face!

Not sure my heart HAS cockles, but if it does, they're warm.

Lochlan's only consolation was that Caleb was kind. It brings a strange sort of relief to him when he expects the worst. He was further heartened that Caleb couldn't calm me down, that he doesn't have the range of soothing mechanisms that Lochlan has always had from the first moment, those nurturing, comforting capacities he's only ever denied me once.

Once.

Once is the hard part. The part that keeps him at almost-arms length. The part that makes it so easy to keep Caleb here close enough to touch as some sort of permanent punishment. That one moment when Lochlan faltered just enough and I saw that he was human and fallible and a goddamned teenage boy and maybe he and Caleb weren't all that different after all and how everything was still wrong even if we were in love because I wasn't old enough to self-validate my feelings, and yet my feelings didn't count because I was still a child.

I don't know if I'll ever forgive anyone for that. They're selective. The good feelings are acceptable, encouraged and noticed. The bad ones are wrong, shove them under the rug, don't let them see the light of day, bury this shit like we should have buried her and then we wouldn't have to live like this, under the risk of not knowing when she would tell, who she would tell, when she might implode.

Instead she reminds them daily that feelings are feelings and you don't get to choose which ones are the ones you will nurture. Instead she teaches them that people are stronger than they sometimes look. Instead she finds a way to live around it, through it and without it too and it seems to be working mostly fine, though the experts (both in-house and out) tell you it's so unhealthy it might be a first and what the fuck, Bridget, eventually it's going to implode. Either they are, you are or all of this will.

If you live on borrowed time, do it well, because you'll never be able to afford to pay it back, let alone with interest.

I want to go clam-digging, I announce abruptly and Lochlan's all well and good to take me until he pauses.

Do they have clams here?

I have no idea. 

Look it up. 

Yes. Plus oysters and cockles. 

I've never seen cockles here. 

Just outside Nanaimo. 

You want to do this today? 

Maybe. I don't know. 

I need a new video card and Ruth has to get her school supplies for second semester. Then at four Christian wants me to pick him up while his truck's getting serviced. Uh. Can we go tomorrow?

No, I missed church last week. 

I don't think Sam cares, Bridge. 

I don't go for him. 

I don't think Jake cares either. 

Wow. 

Well, wow, you want to drive for half a day to dig clams? 

I want to leave here. 

Elaborate. 

It's cabin fever, that's all. I hate January. 

I thought Ben fixed January. 

He only showed up for a bit and he's already gone again. 

Lochlan stops what he's doing and comes over to me, pulling my hands in against his chest, kissing my forehead, my nose, my mouth.

I'm here. You don't have to run. 

Everyone's crushing me with their sweetness. I'm fine. I don't need to be coddled.

Really?

Seriously. 

Then we're not going to the island this weekend. 

Lochlan! 

You said you didn't need to be coddled!

Clam-digging isn't coddling!

It is in fucking JANUARY, Bridge!

"History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce." -Karl Marx.

The sound in my mouth
It gets so loud
It gets so loud
Little words can slip out
Words like sorry
I'm so sorry

To his credit he waited until Ben disappeared again, until Lochlan was in an exceedingly good mood and until he noticed that I had bitten my nails to the quick.

Neamhchiontach, you're still tense. 

Just having a hard time letting go of tension. It takes more than a few days, I think. 

Your hands-

I hide them in the sleeves of my sweater. Just nerves, that's all. 

I can fix that. 

It's late. I raised my eyebrows. He nodded and held out his hand.

I woke up this morning directly underneath a river of hemlocks, rain beating down on the glass, filtered through the trees straight into my eyes. His room is warm. The fur blankets are warm and cozy. The rain is cozy. I lie there biting my nails again and he doesn't open his eyes. Stop. Would you like to have them done so you can't bite them?

Caleb is sleepy, after half a night of trying to fit together conventionally. No doors, no violence, no drugs, no booze. Just him, hands empty, heart almost-full, holding out his arms for me, keeping his weight just right, taking his time, amping up affection levels to a point he rarely reaches, being sweet. I never know what to do when he's like this. It makes it harder still.

No. Thank you. 

I don't like this. You have the hands of an eight-year-old. 

Eleven. I correct him automatically.

He watches my expression of anticipation, my dare. My quiet reminder. Time to go, Baby Girl. Your Magician will be antsy. 

No, he's resigned. 

Resigned, is he? Good to know. 

(I'm sure somewhere Ben has Lochlan in a headlock.)

Yeah, I can go. I get dressed as he watches and instantly start biting my nails again.

I failed. 

Pardon? 

I was going to make you less tense. That was the point. How do I do that? 

Be anyone but you.

Who needs a title? I've got a Ben.

And after this world is out of reach
Sober and silent, faded and violent
Hopeless, I fight to fall between
Never surrender, out of the embers
Save a space inside for me

I don't know what it is about Januaries but they seem to be a Ben-thing, in that he just comes out from hiding and positively blooms. He's present. He's engaged and engaging. He's charming and sweet and affectionate and funny. He's around. He checks the schedule and shows up on time, or early. He talks us into things. He's Ben again.

He goes through debilitating times too where he'll disappear for weeks and then months and then he appears like magic and I love it so much. It's made me look forward to the after-Christmas period where usually all I do is complain about the days still being short, in spite of promises that they'll soon be longer.

I'm not going to assume his presence has anything to do with my health scare. It doesn't. I could set my seasonal-watch by Ben sightings alone, and he's been this way for years so it isn't me, it's him.

But I'll take it.

So will Lochlan.

So will everyone, actually, as he's been helping PJ in the kitchen, he went and did a little work with Caleb in home repair (Caleb isn't...uh...handy but Ben wasn't about to let him waste two or three hundred dollars calling a plumber to change out a new tap after Caleb tightened one too hard and broke it. Ben learned his skills from the others and shows it off every chance he gets.) and he went over to visit with Batman and Jay. He and John are going rain-golfing shortly even.

Snort.

(It's freaking cold.)

He even went and met Joel for coffee last evening. He's down to a meeting twice a week otherwise which is nice because he's home more. He's charmed the dog. He's rested. He's up to date. He's now trying to figure out what projects to take for spring and what to pass on. He's in demand but choosing carefully. He is not, contrary to rumors, hitting the road again.

(Indefinitely not so whatever you heard it's wrong.)

He is making lunch for me as I type. Right now. I don't know what it is. He told me not to worry about it when I asked. That makes me nervous, because when he says that it means he's making something weird.

He just came and read over my shoulder and he insists it's nothing weird.

Call Loch. It's ready. 

Okay. But what is it?

The world revolves around me.

In spite of sayings to the contrary, it actually does.

I poked around the internet this morning. Every old blog that I used to follow long abandoned now, tumbleweeds rolling through, save for one or two that are updated sporadically in fits and spurts with many apologies. I guess Youtube is the way to go now, or Instagram stories, which I don't get at all. Ruth and Henry use Snapchat, I tried once and now have a picture of myself and Christian on my phone with dog ears (which has become comedy gold, mind you) but I like to write.

It keeps me from going crazy.

I managed to have a major, terrifying health scare over the holidays and it was resolved on Monday. I have an all-clear. I was scared but I was also prepared. I didn't look it up. I told very few. I didn't tell my mom, and now she's mad. I followed instructions diligently and I spent from Dec 19 to January 8th waiting.

Waiting is hard. Your brain conjures up results without any information and you make decisions for every outcome and the one you want, which requires no decisions at all to be made after the fact is the one you get which makes you think you've just ducked as a bullet whizzed over your head and you're grateful beyond measure.

And then you are relieved but it floods in slowly. It takes days to stop clenching teeth and fists. Days to breathe again. Days to feel like you used to. Life begins today. Today is the first day, they say, of the rest of your life and finally that stupid saying makes sense.

I think grief has aged me. It's made me fearful of stupid things and very big things alike. This was some sort of resignation. I was ready to be told my time has been shortened. The boys were ready to fight. But it hasn't been shortened now and they don't have to fight.

Now we meet in the middle.

But yeah, my world revolves around me, so there's another saying that makes sense. Just like when Lochlan had so much trouble healing a broken arm we revolved around him. The world revolves around whoever is in the center. Yours revolves around you, too. Congratulations.

I'm not sorry to discover this. I had a feeling it was true, it's nice to have it confirmed. It's nice to know that my boys are relieved and thrilled that I'm okay. It's good to be loved. It's incredible to be loved this much.

And words will never be enough to describe this life, so I need the full allotted time to try and do it anyway.

Also, I've asked if we can do Christmas over again but they all said no.

(Thanks for respecting the odd moments when I ask for privacy. I only posted this to quiet the predictable (but seriously misguided) pregnancy rumors. Stop it already.)

Travel diaries and best sleeps.

I couldn't get up this morning, lying in bed tracing the numbers on the back of Lochlan's neck while he slept instead. The numbers represent the sum of the miles he traveled with the show. He kept a log. He kept a diary. Then Caleb stole it and when Lochlan got it back he realized that it wasn't what was on the pages that was important after all. He had it all in his head. The things he wanted desperately to remember, his favorite quotes and these numbers, he had tattooed all over the place and the rest he let burn.

He burns everything, including the bridges behind him as he runs. We build them again and he comes back long enough to set them alight before taking off once more. If he had wings I-

He doesn't.

He never will. He'll live forever and so I'm not even going to finish that thought. Instead I'll just marvel at the distance he'll go to be who he wants to be.

He's made it and circled back again.

He's tired.

Last night he followed me wordlessly across the driveway, up the steps and down the narrow glass patio to Caleb's front door. I opened it and Lochlan reached up over my head and closed it again, pulling me out of the way with a cry of surprise, taking my hand, leading me back down the steps, back across the driveway, pulling me inside through the door, locking it, throwing the bolts without looking, for he was glaring mildly at me instead. I nod at his expression and he softens so visibly guilt shoots through me like a thunderbolt. I wasn't doing anything, I was just going for that second drink, the first dry in my throat from the morning, long forgotten in taste. That's all.

He presses me against the door with a kiss, twisting my hands up against the window, pushing himself against me. He disengages so we can breathe.

Stay put. Our foreheads are pressed together. I can't nod but I try and he finishes the motion for me. He takes my hand and pulls me up the steps and through the house. Upstairs. Lights off, doors locked as we go. Inside our room he repeats himself in case I missed it.

Stay put. Stay here. And I can deal with things just fine. I asked you if you wanted me to come. Don't let him blame it on me if you said no. They want me to treat you like an adult and I'm trying, Peanut but you make it hard. Don't let him undermine me like that. 

I'm sorry. I whisper it to him but he's already kissing me more, stripping us down, wapping me in blankets and then holding his finger out meaning stay here and he goes and starts a fire. The room still feels so cold but we'll warm up. We'll get there.

I always have woken up first in the morning. I've always remained right where I am (as instructed, always), studying him. The semi-crooked smile he sleeps with. The eyebrows, pale yet disapproving, as if the top half of his face doesn't match the bottom. The way his curls refuse to sync up together and spill over each other. I can wrap them around my wrist without stretching them. Rarely do I see such huge curls in the wild. The color of his hair as it changes from one season to the next, now dark winter red at the ends, summer strawberry blonde at the ends, meeting in the middle in a hope for spring. His nose that he hates that I love. A little bit bigger than normal giving him a friendly appearance that a perfect nose would have interrupted. Too perfect isn't good and good isn't in being too perfect.

Now I trace the lines on his face and he grunts in protest and turns away. But he leaves his arm wrapped around me so I don't stray too far, my hand on his heart, just covering the lower case letter b tattooed there, right where it should be.

Story of my life, right here.

Written on his skin.

Good news.

You look like you could use a drink.

Is this a test? 

No? Why do you ask?

Because if I say yes I don't want eight different people coming out of the woodwork to tell me what a terrible idea it is. 

How about this? One drink. One visit to the King Tide and then I'll bring you back. 

Sounds perfect. 

I could feel my body visibly relaxing as I stood on the landing just above the final string of steps to the beach. They're underwater, this is as far as we can go. We can head the other way and walk out on the docks but I like to walk the beach so this is as good as it's going to get.

I don't have glasses. Caleb takes the bottle and drinks straight from it. Then he hands it to me and I do the same. It burns so beautifully on the way down.

To good news, he says.

Amen, I follow.

How are you? 

I'll sleep tonight. Maybe I'll be back over for a dram first. 

I'll wait up. 

You don't have to. If you're tired-

I would have gone with you. 

Had to go by myself. 

What if it hadn't been good news? 

Then next visit I would have brought you and Loch. 

Lochlan doesn't do so well with-

He'll learn, just like the rest of us. 

Jesus Benjamin (welcome to completely different levels of alertness and morning-ness).

Ben is on point this morning, waking me up early to get ready (he's already dressed for church), then while I'm in the shower he make us coffee and bagels, which were ready just as I came out in my robe to get dressed. We pile back into bed to try to wake up Lochlan so we can eat together. Lochlan is reluctant and sleepy and beautiful. I struggle to hold my cup and plate level between that distracting view and Ben moving, which threatens to upend my breakfast but only a little.

Lochlan manages half a cup of coffee and three bites of my bagel before asking if he can sleep. Ben grants him his request like a dad, but he's eyeing the untouched third bagel. I eye him and he catches me.

Fight you for it? 

You're on. 

I reach up and tickle him under his arms and he retaliates by pinning me down. I shriek, Lochlan curses very loudly and Ben clamps his hand over my mouth, tickling me all over with his other hand until I'm shaking and muffled-screaming and thrashing like a maniac.

Lochlan gets up and goes into the bathroom and doesn't come back out while we lie there, church clothes askew, breathing heavily and laughing softly.

Ben looks at the clock. Fuck, we gotta go. 

Okay. 

He gets up, tucking himself back together and pulls me to my feet. I straighten my dress, find my shoes and take off the one remaining earring. I don't where the other one went. Fuck. I fix my hair and grab a lipstick and my bag off the dresser.

Love you, Locket! I call through the door.

Wait! 

He flings the door open, towel in hand. Come back for lunch. I'll be awake then. 

I nod. I'll pray for your heathen soul. 

Good luck with that. Love you Peanut.

He plants a morning-breath kiss on me and Ben pulls me out the door.

***

Church was quiet and boring and empty and raining. It's not hard to hear Sam when the rain beats down on the roof but it's hard to stay awake. Every time my head went down Ben would squeeze his arm tightly around me. I think he thought I was going to fall on my shoes, collapsing face-first into a puddle on the floor in front of the bench.

Honestly I probably would have.

PJ smirked the whole time. He finds my narcolepsy hilarious. Where's Loch? He asked.

Home. He's up but wasn't in time to come today.

Lucky bastard, PJ says under his breath.

Hey, you don't have to come, I tell him. No one forced you. 

I feel guilty if I don't, PJ says and Ben chuckles. Sam's eyes find us, twinkling. He thinks he's said something clever. I nod at him for the confidence boost and he carries on. I can't even remember his sermon though, maybe it's the traditional understated January malaise. The days are still short and dark, the weather is typical, deplorable and our minds are elsewhere.

Sam lets us out early and we were all home in record time. His second-in-command looks after second service today. It will be more crowded with the later crowd and less personal, somehow.

When we get home Lochlan has tomato soup and grilled cheese ready to roll. Ben eats four sandwiches before I finish half of one. Lochlan is dressed, his hair's under control and he's alert and nice. He's so cranky sometimes. He and Ben share a smile as they both get up at the same time to clear plates.

And I speak too soon.

Jesus. I feel like a princess again. You're all spoiling me. 

They take all of the plates they're holding and pile them in front of and all around me. I just won the chore with that comment.

Nice.

One for all.

August swings lazily in his bed, calling out instructions across the room for the Breville that I am attempting to navigate while my brain wanders off to dangerous places, knowing he's possibly not wearing anything under that quilt, that the fire roars high in the woodstove and that I don't have to do a single thing today other than make a couple of decent cups of espresso here and then dump out the contents of my brain for him to examine.

Come in. 

I heard him call out sleepily when I knocked on the door, the rain beating down on my head, frozen to the bone just from the short trip across the driveway. I need to keep a coat by the side door, I think. When I turned the knob and peeked in I saw a large form still in bed.

Oh! If I woke you I'm sorry. 

I said come in. If I had said nothing then I was asleep. I was already awake. Just not up yet. He pulls himself up to a sitting position and the quilt comes to rest at his waist. No shirt. The room is warm from the fire. It's new so I know he's not just being polite.

I can come back if you'd like to get ready before we visit. 

What haven't you already seen, Bridge? Just come in and I'll teach you to use the coffeemaker. 

I close the door behind me as water drips all over the floor around me.

We need a driveway canopy. 

Ha. That will just encourage me.

I don't mind. It's working. 

Yeah. 

I get to work making the coffees. It's fumbly at first but I can see the ritual emerging. Just a series of steps, like everything else.

I bring a tray with two small cups and two muffins toward the bed but he howls in protest, sending me back toward the living area. August's biggest pet peeve in life is eating in bed, though once he came for a pizza party with Ben and I and I didn't hear any complaints. He'll drink in bed. He just insists he feels a bit like the Princess and the Pea if he feels a crumb underneath him as he sleeps.

Can't say I blame him.

He gets up and I am almost profoundly disappointed to see he's wearing pajama pants.

God.

No really, I am. But it's better that he's dressed for breakfast. He pulls on a clean t-shirt (that might be too small) and my brain forgets why I'm here. It's too busy negotiating a different kind of breakfast and wondering if it would be rude to ask him to just never ever comb his hair again and squinting just a little bit while he talks to turn him into Jacob.

But he catches me handily. Stop. 

What?

Zoning out. 

Sorry, it's early. 

It's ten. 

Right.  

The deal is every morning at ten we spend an hour, find a focus and then you see how the rest of the day goes. He smiles and I nod. It is working. It's working well, though I have moments when I just can't seem to get a grip and then it passes. 2018 is going to be the year of living gracefully as well as gratefully, together. No fists, no raised voices, no ultimatums, no tears.

Ha. That last one though. Good luck. Unless he meant for them. Men cry, they just do it in private.

We're working on balance. Control (a whole different kind than the one historically used by Caleb. Who knew there was more than one kind?). Seeking out the light. Happiness. Cohesiveness. Love.

(That's my favorite one.)

Every day at twelve sharp Lochlan crosses the driveway too and August makes him a cup of espresso and he gets a brief update and they do that short man-hug thing where they basically smash chests and thump each other twice on the back before we leave. By this time generally I've had four cups and I float across the driveway with Lochlan, who holds my string very tightly so I don't drift up into the clouds and he asks if I'm good, if it was a good talk and I usually say yes or if it was tough I say I'm glad I did it anyway and then we make our plans for the rest of the day.

In the evenings at nine it switches out to Sam, who is tasked with breaking down the events of the day and seeing how I fared. Damage control, attitude readjustment and a full commitment to August's methods. Consistency. Cohesiveness. Love. Sam and I talk quietly on the porch under the watchful eye of our Lady Grey teas while the rain pours down around the edges of our atoll and we see how hard it was for me to keep the focus, discuss what may have derailed me or how I navigated the hard parts of the day and we plot the course on a map of my heart to see how far I managed to get.

Every night at ten sharp Lochlan opens the front door and I hand him my tea to finish and he gets a brief update. Sam doesn't do the man-hug thing, instead giving a full on, arms around Lochlan squeeze that holds for five or ten seconds, depending on how the day went. This time I take the cups and go inside and Lochlan takes my place for a half hour or so,  talking with Sam about the day and how he found it. How he's coping with it. How to process it. How to let me grow up when emotionally we're stuck in the teenage years seemingly forever.

Sam and August talk after that, together or so I learned a couple of days ago, supporting each other, choosing to work together instead of giving out mixed messages or conflicting methods.

Took us awhile, this. We'll get where we need to be.

Together, Lochlan says.

Yeah. 

Twice a day, every day.

There's nothing better than five victories for a rainy Friday morning. The world looks normal again, dim and soaked through, rich in petrichor. My favorite. It looks downright strange here when it's sunny or when it snows, for that matter. Like the words don't fit the picture. It's almost a relief when it rains again which I'd never thought I'd hear myself say.

So I wrote it down instead.

The five victories are small but mighty. The new single is beautiful. I had the laundry done and all of the bathrooms cleaned before nine this morning. Decapitated had all the charges dropped, mainly because their accuser had a previous incident in which she lied to law enforcement about being hit by a boyfriend, or so I read online this morning (don't even get me started about groupies and tour busses), I managed to bang out a full sixty percent of my biggest project yesterday alone, somehow, I don't how but I'm very happy with it, and I figured out what was hurting my gums so much on one side, after switching to a soft toothbrush and flossing like a madwoman, feeling like there was coconut? maybe from a chocolate but this morning I was like okay, this is it. I flossed very enthusiastically and a tiny piece of hull from popcorn came out of hiding. A piece of hull that doesn't break down and the last time I had popcorn was for Star Wars on Dec. 16.

That's three weeks. What the fuck. It didn't really start to bother me until about four days ago and I'm never having popcorn again. Ever. Henry can finish the last bit in the pantry. I'm not buying it, eating it or suffering it ever again. Not like it's good for us anyway.

Speaking of healthy things, people are always asking me if we have a home gym.

We used to, in castle times. It was mostly an unused room with an elliptical and a giant Weber (Nordic?) gym thing that you could do eighty million exercises on with pulleys and weights and stuff. I used it. Jake used it. The kids used it as a jungle gym. Ben used it to show us how dumb it actually was.

Then we gave it all away in favor of fresh air. Who needs to be inside when the coldest it ever gets here is minus ten?

So we go outside. The boys have endless means to get exercise. They shove each other. They swim back to shore after being thrown off the cliff. They stairclimb. They follow me around. They wrestle. They...uh...box. We run sometimes. Sex is a good means of exercise, bring your friends and everyone gets healthy, right? We also have house chores like raking leaves, chopping wood and hell if you've run out of easy things there's a unicycle in the garage that is incredibly difficult to ride and possibly a better core workout than anything else.

I must have had fifty emails asking me about resolutions this year, what I do to stay in shape (jesus, can't you READ?), if I plan to improve myself, etc. etc. and really this is where the popcorn comes in. I have a problem with sugar but also with popcorn because I'll eat popcorn to stay awake during movies because they're long and warm and it's dark and these are the perfect conditions for narcoleptic Bridget to pass out cold and miss everything.

But I don't eat healthy air-popped organic whatever, I'll take what PJ or Ben didn't want which is usually greasy, nuclear extra-buttered cardboard.

It's so delicious. I'll eat it until it's gone and then I get that bird-at-a-wedding feeling like I might explode.

So I'm going to do better in 2018, mostly because I didn't want to have to go to the dentist. I hate the dentist, and not because I'm afraid but because this dentist is a business based on profit instead of health and I resent that I have to research and question every little thing.
I should switch but what a pain. Actually I feel like I have to stay to guard the others against the same tactics they try on me. Long story. Anyway. It's a day of small victories and that's what's important.

(Really though, I'm trying hard not to laugh at the people who profess to be longtime readers who ask me how I stay in shape. You must have Black Mirror's Arkangel filters on your eyeballs, I guess.)

Wait! I forgot the weirdest victory of all. Which was finding out after wearing it for TWO whole years that my Cirque Du Soleil sweater has pockets.

Hallelujah.

Edit: Also I learned all these years when I've been chewing on pencils to get the weird shivery spark feeling in my head and to make the pencil ferrules flat as pancakes I was just acknowledging my future self who would get spoiled on Christmas 2017 with a fistful of Blackwing Palomino pencils, which have a distinct flattened ferrule already and are too expensive and beautiful to chew on anyway.  God I love these things and aren't you glad someone suggested I just dump the contents of my brain all over blogger today?

Yeah, I'm just killing time before dinner because someone said there might be chopsticks involved. HELL YEAH.

Sublimity all around me.

Day is reborn
Fight with folded hands
Pain left below
The life-

And I can't figure out the rest.

EDIT: GOT IT!

The lifeless live again

(Red cold river)

 I can't feel anything at all
This life has left me cold and damp
I can't feel anything at all
This love has led me to the end

Ears. They're somewhat broken but just enough to frustrate me. Whoops.

(Also shhhhhh. There's a chorus for you. You're welcome.)

But WHO CARES? New Breaking Benjamin single out tomorrow and the teasers sound incredible and I want to cry for all of the weird emotions that bubble up within. It's the same feeling I get when I listen to Pachebel or Shostakovich or...the new Bladerunner soundtrack. I don't even want to explain it but it's incredible. Like a whole-body orgasm.

Listen to this (Chaconne in F Minor) the whole way through UP VERY LOUDLY and tell me you don't feel something. 

Who the hell is going to deny themselves that?

Not me, said the little deaf girl in the corner.

(PS. That's my absolute favourite piece. Especially from about 6:20 to around 7:00 minutes in. Want another recommendation? Seriously. Listen to Winter or Blue by Oceans of Slumber. They have a new album coming in March and I'm salivating just waiting for it.)

Actually I'm not in the corner today. Today I may have turned a corner though I'm threatened back into at any moment and have to keep fighting not to give in. Things are okay with a twenty-percent chance of dread which seems high but actually isn't. I have an appointment next week that's weighing on me and I have to start booking the vehicles for their quarterly servicings, which is a chore I despise but one the boys will put off until before you know it they've missed three in a row and it threatens warranties and makes me somewhat irritated so I do it myself. That's minor though. I can do that. The first thing is just...a WEIGHT.

And I have to mop. I hate that. Pretty sure I could promise/trade sexual favours for someone else doing it but I should probably just do it myself.

And I need to finish two fairly large projects I have on the go but that corner. It just looks so warm and inviting and I could put myself back in there and listen to this song snippet on a loop and gosh, I hope it's not a fucking Spotify exclusive or anything. I don't believe in Spotify on principal. It's the Amazon of the music world, delivering little profits to the creators of the content Spotify gets rich off of. And don't get me started on 'renting' your music.

But I'm not here to talk politics, no sir. I'm here to entertain.

I'm not even here to entertain today. I only do that for money. I used to do it for fame but then I realized money was better. And it feels weird to have such a normal life with such normal things happening. An oil change or five. A trip to the bank. A trip to the hospital. A big chore, job well done. A new song to listen to. A very old song to listen to. Such a far cry from the lights and the danger and the excitement of the show. Now the show is a cold empty beach and the blocked-out noise of the world and I wouldn't trade that for anything.

Metalhead.

Today I'm thinking over how Black Mirror went down. How the stories are structured, like all good stories are, in that some start you at the very beginning, holding your hand, walking you through the major points to an eventual conclusion that wraps everything up neatly with a bow while others drop you violently into the action without apology or explanation and then leave you wondering, feeling as if you really enjoyed the ride, you just have little idea what started it or how it's all going to turn out. 

I like both formats very much, though I also feel as if when I write I give too much information up front and I'm working on getting better at this. 

Slowly. 

It's a great watch if you love to be tense and uncomfortable, viceral in your hatred of a fictional character or several and don't mind a lack of closure, here and there. Really great. 

(If you really want to know Crocodile is my favorite episode. Metalhead actually clocks in at number three.)

I'm also thinking about how Coco went down, because we watched that over the weekend too, and it's probably the first and last time I'll sit through a movie starring Gael García Bernal without being keenly aware of him (sorry, but he's beautiful. Watch The Motorcycle Diaries) since I didn't know it was his voice until the credits. Pixar never fails to disappoint and I was strangely elated to confirm that people are right, it's nothing like Book Of Life. 

There, two things for you to do while I try and swim out of my Monday quicksand. Especially since it's actually Wednesday. 

Sneaking in to breathe a sigh of relief.

This Christmas they got along. We didn't get thrown out of any restaurants for infighting, they didn't throw any surprise haymakers at one another and I didn't end up being the rope in a lifelong tug of war, somehow. They got along.

We had more meals together as a complete Collective than any other time in our history. There were surprise days off taken and surprise work taken over to get it done faster and better if more hands were in on it.

We had a good time. We celebrated Christmas and New Years, Solstice and Hanukkah too. We got a little sleep but never enough and we go into the rest of this week on a new yet familiar ground without impossible resolutions but simply plans to be better, try harder and do more and less all at once.

We ran out of Champagne with no plans to have any more as it was a slow build to popping corks off the ceiling Sunday night and gently smashing the rims of our glasses together in cries of Sláinte! and Cheers! that took almost to 12:02 to get that first sip.

But here we are and I didn't even hesitate the first time I wrote 2018. It rolls off so easily and I hope that means a year of good things.

We got the trees down and the decorations down. Everything outside stays up and lit. I'm in no rush to change that. There's a mugful of candy canes on the counter with which to stir hot chocolate until they're gone and the days are getting longer already.

Hello 2018.

Happy New Year! I'm starting my day with bulletproof coffee, eggs Benedict and a beautiful sunny day here on the Salish Sea. I woke up clear-headed and energetic and we've already watered the plants, finished the laundry, given the dog a bath (he. smells. so. good.) and been out for brunch, at a place that was sort of eerily empty considering the holiday, but delicious nonetheless.

Lochlan is also bright-eyed and bushy-haired.  We're going to finish watching the new Season of Black Mirror now and then plot dinner plans because I'm thinking spaghetti would be a wonderful first meal of the year. Everyone is up and it feels more like Easter and less like New Years, probably because the rain took away the remainder of the snow from our neighborhood and everything dried out and I can actually handle winters if they're only going to be a week or two long, I think.

What's gotten into you, Peanut? 

SUNSHINE.

I like it.

Yeah, me too!

NYE

I took down the other post. Too personal, even for me. Too self-depricating, too sad for a beautiful day. Instead I've decided to just keep my resolutions simple.

I'll keep my boundaries, be kinder to myself, paint more, write more and eat a lot better, if I can. I'll drink less, get more accomplished and focus on the blessings instead of the curses, which is not something I come by naturally but is definitely something I can work on.

Weirdly formal, formally weird.

Now that the laptop is fixed (thank you Lochlan!), the ramen cravings have been satisfied, the main floor is vacuumed, laundry, errands, recycling and garbage is caught up, sundry decorations are all put away (trees and lights are still up) and Ruth's room looks more apartment, less bedroom (massive rearranging), I can relax.

Long day that started late and I'm not a huge fan of vacuuming at eight o'clock at night but I had to pull everything out of the front hall closet in order to fit a second shoe rack in there because there are too many shoes and it's getting ridiculous and with boots too for the snow it's beyond unorganized. I didn't realize how much until I got back into the truck to come home from lunch and saw that I had one black and one brown Doc Marten boot on. Oh great. Hope Ruth didn't plan on wearing hers because I have her left. Whoops.

So another rack and everything has a place now, but there was also a months worth of dried leaves in the closet. And a dog gate. And a scooter that's too small for anyone but me to ride and I don't want to ride it. And a baseboard from the castle in the Prairies but don't ask about that. Or maybe I've mentioned it. I don't remember.

Everything has a place now. Even the baseboard.

So I sit down with a drink (vodka and coke. The Russians left a huge bottle of Stoli as part of our gift and it doesn't fit in any cupboards. It's weirdly tall and thin and so we..drank it. Because I'm too classy to leave a bottle of alcohol sitting out or standing in the pantry but I'm not classy enough to save it or give it away.) and guess who comes strolling into the kitchen?

The Devil.

Who immediately decides he doesn't have to abide by the spoken rule that New Years Eve is off limits and invites me to go out with him. On a date. Dressed up. On a borrowed yacht. All the monte cristos and champagne my little busted heart desires. Fireworks. A clear cold night. Cuddles. New resolutions, made on the water I was born on, fused in salt, carved in the stones at the bottom of the sea.

I pick up the bottle and just drink straight from it because that sounds like a GREAT time and frankly I can be bought (but not by the Russians, because I sent back most of their gift to me with a lovely note explaining that I can only wear jewelry if it's from my husband and of course they understand but Fabergé is beautiful indeed and I'm very touched that they thought of me and to take care. In reality I'm peeing myself with fright because they might be offended) but Lochlan can't and his idea of New Years Eve is a roaring fire and snuggles and sleeping early and easily, maybe a whiskey, probably a meat pie and some cake and I'm sure there will be flannel involved and right up until Caleb said Fireworks on the water I thought the flannel + fire would be the best thing ever but..

Wait. It still is. It always will be. I've done both and the fire in the hearth wins every time.

Thank you but as I said I already have plans. 

Bring him. 

It's not a threesome kind of night. I burst out laughing. God. I'm an asshole.

You could change your plans. Or we could do a bit of both plans. 

Caleb-

Just tell me what you want to do. 

I did. And I'm sorry but you're not invited. (I'm touched that you thought of me and take care but please oh please don't be offended.) I'll see you later this week maybe. We can do something fun then. 

I don't want to be alone. His face. Oh my God, his face. Guilt renders me desperate.

Catch a flight home? 

Too late.

See what Ben is up to? 

He stares at me.

Batman is watching all the Star Wars. I think a few of the guys are joining him. Beers and pizza. We might even stop in. 

I want to ring in the New Year with you. Neamhchiontach. Please. 

I'm sorry. 

What will it take to change your mind? 

I take his hands and he covers mine with his while he waits for me to speak. Nothing. I'm sorry. You agreed readily to the plans we made this holiday and even with regret I'm not changing them. I'm looking forward to a quiet night with Lochlan, I'm in need of sleep and less stress and I'm not going to fight about this. I draw a line in the air with my mind. A very rare and precious boundary. And it holds.

New Years Day. Can I treat you to a late brunch? Like last year? So I can look forward to the morning?

Yes. 

Just you. 

Sure. 

Okay. I'll see you before the evening though so I'm not going to wish you a Happy New Year quite yet. 

Of course. 

This is Sam's doing? These..boundaries?

August's. 

Holding your ground? 

Yes. My resolutions are finally set. I'll tell you a few on Monday at brunch. 

Can't wait to hear them. 

I can't wait to try and make them stick. Hey. Speaking of which, what are yours? 

I'll tell you on Monday too. He smiles, just not with his eyes.

I'm not doing anything right now if you want to watch something with me. A movie or something? 

I'd like that. His eyes finally smile too.  Mind if I pour a drink? 

Be my guest.

Here's to the radical reformation of the sixteenth century! (And other stories for a rainy Friday afternoon.)

Annnnnnd back to Chrome, which half-loads every webpage and eats the other half and mostly doesn't quite work but Lochlan won't fix it.

In my next life I'll be a luddite. A pilgrim. An Amish..person. A Hutterite. I can bake and build and sew worth my salt. Technology? Fucking hell. I don't know my iOS from my elbow. I put a new hard drive in this machine on a dare but now I can't update to High Sierra. I can't turn off the updates though so every morning I hit a button that says "Try Tomorrow".

Indeed. Think I will.

This machine unexpectedly turns itself off every half hour or so. But I love this Macbook. It's eight years old now. Kind of like me, emotionally only this thing has no emotions, it's just cruel. But it's a lifeline in a strange way. All my words are in it. Well, the ones that aren't in my brain, I mean and after spending half a day trying to fix it I'm stuck leaving it the way it is. I just don't know.

I don't know how to fix it, I don't know what's wrong with it. I don't know what I'm doing and at this rate in about a week I'll be one of the little old ladies at the Apple store tables learning how to download an app or check my battery life. Not even kidding.

I can turn off lights with my mind though. Explain THAT.

Update: Lochlan finally took a look at it. Maybe he felt sorry for me, more likely he's worried I might figure out what else I can do with my mind, as I clearly haven't unlocked my special powers yet in any meaningful way, but like my rare anger, God help us all when I do.

But I have bad RAM as it turns out, and so we're going to get a couple of new sticks and get the inside of my laptop all cleaned out and it's like he found his patience again or maybe he was just that impressed that I invoked a wish to join the groups that eschew technology and never asked him for help. It's a Christmas miracle.

I know. You love it when I whine about my laptop.

(Sorry)

Records were meant to be broken, just like prayers are meant to be heard.

I've been trying to write my resolutions but I can't seem to get anywhere. I don't have to show them to anyone, don't have to read them out loud, don't even have to adhere to them if I chose not to but I've been putting off writing them the same way I put off going out this morning. We needed gas for the truck, needed groceries for the house (I hadn't been food shopping since the 19th if you can even believe it and we were out of everything), needed cash from the bank and had to drop off a chair that we were getting rid of.

I just can't seem to get moving. Life seems to be a slow-motion quicksand. It's just the time of year, that dark period right after the first day of winter when you don't observe the days getting shorter again quite yet and it's cold and dark seemingly all the time. I can't tell this to August or he'll drag out the SAD light and park me in front of it for days even as I tell him: It's just that time of year. He knows it. The fuss and excitement of Christmas comes to a squealing, grinding halt and you stare down the inevitability of a new year and all of the expectations it brings. Dancing? Champagne? Wool pajamas and a roaring fire? Skating on the pond? Board games and pizza? This ties in with those pesky resolutions. Should they be deep or shallow? Thick or thin? Obvious or profound? Maybe a little bit of everything? Maybe nothing at all.

Maybe they should be what I want them to be. Maybe they should just be what they already are to me: half unobtainable bucket list and half flighty bullshit promises. PJ said to write down the first things that come to mind. Sam tells me to keep a list that will make me into the best person I can be. Caleb says to shoot for the moon.  Lochlan says to be good.

Why again am I doing this?

Lochlan wrote another poem about my reluctance to celebrate New Years. Enjoy.

The new year comes knocking
So fast and so loud
She holds to the old one
So stubborn, so proud

It begs her attention
"So shiny! So new!"
She scowls with her mouth
"As if that will do!"

"I'll cling to the old one! 
I'll keep it right here! 
One thing is always easier than the unknown
and that's fear! 

So take away your new things 
your loud 'Auld Lang Syne'
I'll be right here
I'll be perfectly fine!"

Dear Peanut, it's coming
Whether you like it or not
So unclench your fingers
There's no strength you've got

To stay mired in the past
When you could come see what's new
I promise you'll like it
We'll be waiting for you.

I don't post on Christmas Day and other fun things you seem to forget in a fog of nutmeg and gingerbread.

Santa found me. So did the Devil, the magician, the best friend and the Russians! Jesus. I am spoiled. The children are spoiled. The boys are spoiled. The dog was spoiled. Actually, if anyone else feeds the dog 'just a taste' of what we're having, they're going to lose a hand, as he has a sensitive stomach and is already farting out the Ghosts of Christmas Past while he sleeps at my feet. Then I get blamed for it, believe it or not and the Ghosts of Christmas Present get all judgey and holier than thou.

But it's okay! I'm done my three days of cooking (as we now have enough leftovers to last us to Friday), every dish in the house is in use, and the recycling has already tripled. Lord help me. I'm about to finish off the bottle of wine started last night on the front porch with the Devil as we played Two Truths and a Lie, and then I'm going to sleep for fifteen more hours and Christmas will be finished, Sam will have his well-earned week off (just like Santa) and we will plunge ahead into the ever-popular and overly-incendiary New Years.

It all goes by so fast.

Merry Christmas to you!

Fixed it.

Give me my WISH! 

I fairly screamed it at them, my inner nine-year-old shining so bright I thought she might step out beside me. They stopped, unbelievably, pulling each other up to stand in front of me like two schoolyard bullies who just discovered the other was taking their turf, only to be reminded neither one of them can lay claim to it.

Which is, I suppose, exactly what's taking place here. Originally it was an agreement that started as 'they' and morphed into 'I' through a combination of jealousy, teenage indignation and ego and I'm trying to shift it back to 'they' with a heavy emphasis on 'him' because he used sweetness, magic and imagination, romance and beautiful promises to get where he is. Caleb chose to use force.

And so here we are.

It's now Christmas Eve and I sat up abruptly at six in the morning, sun not yet awake, head full of terrible nightmares and both of them sleeping soundly around me, Lochlan on my left, Caleb on my right, the remains of the night a distant, melancholic memory of a game of tug-of-war, forced generosity and burying hatchets so deep we are scarred for life.

The more the Devil digs in the harder the Magician holds and that's not a bad thing, in all honesty. My inner nine-year-old would tell you that without hesitating. She would tell you triumphantly that she got her wish after all and then she would promptly burst into tears.

We're getting bad at 'Solsticing.

When I opened the door Lochlan looked up in surprise. He was propped up against pillows on our bed, reading glasses on, hair wild, still wearing jeans and a long-sleeved thermal t-shirt. He had both lights on and was reading, a glass of untouched whiskey and his phone at his side.

The book hit the floor and he was in front of me in seconds. Everything okay? 

Yes. I got sent home after dinner with my present. Look. I open the box and try to show him the float but he's sorting out everything before that.

What happened?

I relay the evening to him as his tension visibly exits his body and then he pulls me in close to hold. The box juts up painfully against my collarbone and he finally takes it, placing it securely on the bureau as he turns and takes his shirt off.

So no nights?

He wants things to get better. I think he's really trying. 

That or he doesn't want your little germy self making him sick too. 

Could be. 

He smiles so languidly I think I might cry as he starts in on me, taking me out of my things, kissing my forehead (worn smooth again, Christ. I wish they'd kiss other parts), gently leading me back to his side of the bed, picking up the book and putting it on the shelf below the drawer, taking off his glasses, then turning off the lights, plunging us into the warm dark of the solstice interrupted, an event I will still forever hate and one he reluctantly celebrates. He twists me away from him and then pulls me back in close, my back against his chest, wrapping his arms tight around me. With his breath against the top of my head and his arms like that, keeping me pinned hard into him I find an easy rhythm to match his and we finish the night the way he wanted but couldn't hope for. When Lochlan lets go just enough for me to catch my breath he waits barely a heartbeat before pulling me back in, his mouth against my ear.

Finally got what I wished for back in 1980. 

We've done this a million times, Locket. 

No. I wished for him to not touch you anymore. 

He hadn't touched me yet, though. 

Sure he had. You just called it affection. 

Still do. 

I know you do. My new wish is for you to stop doing that. 

Never! 

He laughs. So, so relieved that you're home where you belong. 

Yeah, me too. 

If you're not okay with going there, we can stop-

It's fine. It's just tough sometimes. 

I can only imagine how hard it is. His arm tighten again and he's asleep in seconds, a soft purr of a snore rising from his uncongested face. I'm jealous, as my nose is blocked and I'm going to sound like a chainsaw.

But I can't fall asleep.

***

This morning there was an envelope in my coffee cup. Inside a beautiful lace-cut page with Caleb's handwriting.

Tonight. It's not Christmas Eve yet. 

Oh, well, there he is. Right where I left him.

I'll go see him. Any hint of tenderness in Lochlan's very being just let out with an audible snap. There goes my solstice wish. It was nice while it lasted. He reads my mind. Yeah, funny how that works, isn't it?

Salt + smoke.

To free all those who trust in Him
From Satan's power and might
Oh tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
Oh tidings of comfort and joy

Every time I see him my brain goes into emotional recall. My heart lurches forward effusively, recklessly and my body hesitates, somewhere in between, torn between my heart yelling GO GO GO in one direction and my brain signalling flight the other way. I usually hesitate too long, just long enough for him to notice, the bloom of shared memories clouding his vision, his plans, everything with the dim light of darkness that we try to outrun but never seem quite able to.

A walk on the beach culminated in a formal, unfamiliar toast by the sea, by the bonfire he surprised me with, by words I haven't heard him say before, watching him struggle in a way I haven't seen before. It was sobering, a feeling the champagne couldn't smash its way through and didn't even try, flooding in to cover his words before harmlessly washing back out to sea, drawn up with the tides. Caleb took my hand, picked up the bottle with his other hand and we came back up from the beach in the dark, the bonfire drowned in its own flames and saltwater.

He didn't disappoint. We lit the big copper lantern that hangs outside the stable, just where you turn the corner in the driveway and come down the hill toward the houses. Then inside where he had a fire already going, smells of pot roast and woodsmoke mingling beautifully throughout.

You smell like salt.

Salt and smoke.

Salt and smoke. It's intoxicating.

I stiffen perceptibly. He notices but does not remark, covering easily. You sit up here and I'll get dinner together. I offered to help but he wouldn't have it and soon we were taking our plates outside to the tiny glass table underneath the patio heater.

He had a blanket draped on the back of each chair nonetheless and the Christmas lights on that trailed along the railing and then down along the fence too. Magical. Tealights in shells were scattered all over the table, all over the floor and along the railing. Dinner was indeed pot roast, potatoes and mushrooms in earthenware bowls, along with some big hunks of multigrain breads and whiskey in tumblers. Water too. Another toast and we dug in.

Jesus. You need to cook more. My mouth is full but holy cow. This is wonderful. So good.

He laughs. I'd be delighted to. A look passes between us and I realize it's getting very late to match the very dark. I'm not cold but that vague unsettled chill remains that I can't shake, that undercurrent of excitement mixed with dread. I know how late it is. I know what this night is.

You're cold. Let's head inside. Are you finished? Did you want more bread first?

No, thank you. I'm perfect. I smile but not with my eyes. I try, but not all that hard. We stand up and I try to help him with the dishes but he won't let me.

He smiles back, disappointment crashing in to fill the void where hope was, just momentarily. His eyes are hard. The wall is going up. I can almost see it from here.

Get the door for me? 

Of course. 

Once inside he leaves the tray on the counter and pours fresh drinks for us. My whole being is thrumming already from anxiety and firelight and alcohol. My blood sugar soars to the surface along with a flush that buries my summer freckles behind a pink cast.

We take our drinks in by the fire and he gets on his knees in front of me as I sit down. He has a box. It's a cube, actually. The size of his hands.

Open it.  

I stare at him.

Please, Bridget. 

I take the box but my eyes remain on him.

I think you're going to love this. 

What is it? 

Open it. 

I unwrap it and take the lid off. Inside is a glass fishing float. It's the most beautiful shade of palest teal with dozens of tiny air bubbles. It's thick. It's perfectly round and weathered just enough to be real.

Where did you get this? I breathe.

I found it on your beach. 

This is the holy grail of treasures. This is what I look for and I only ever find tiny rounded shards of sandblasted glass.

You didn't! When? 

Just before Halloween. 

So beautiful. 

Like you. Singular. Incredible. 

I shake my head. The knot of dread remains in the pit of my stomach, like it always does, even as I hold this beautiful glass ball in my hands.

Take it home and show Lochlan. 

Should I get your present? I thought we were waiting until Monday. 

We are. I wanted to give this to you alone. I'll see you tomorrow, okay? You can tell me what everyone thought of it. 

You don't want me to come back? 

Unless there's something we've forgotten, our solstice celebration is complete, I think. 

Cale-

Bridget, I told you I want this new year to be different. I want everything to be different.  Now for Gods sake, get out of my sight before I change my mind.

I check the dread that turns to relief, welling up, spilling over so he can't see it, I finish my drink in one go and I pack the weight carefully back into the box for the trip across the driveway.

Goodnight, Diabhal. 

Goodnight, my Neamhchiontach. Enjoy your treasure. 

But his eyes. As blue as the glass, as sad as the sea. On impulse I run back and kiss him on the cheek.

I'm glad you like it. Now go. Please. Hurry.

The naiveté scene.

The fear is not mine
The fear is not my end
Though you attempt to keep me in it
The weight is not mine
The weight is not mine alone
Though you pretend to comprehend it

Caleb chose Yule this year to spend over the holidays. Solstice. The longest night. He's been talking of it quietly to me all week. A walk on the beach at sunset to say goodbye to the light. Lighting the copper lantern by the woods to see us through the dark. A fire already laid in the stove to light when we return. A hearty feast with beef stew, bread and wine to close out the evening. A quiet exchange of our fondest and most fervent wishes for the new year as a solemn marking of this change into the beginning of the cold season. Lighting the tree. Exchanging presents. Seeing each other through the night until the sun rises again so long from now.

It's already beginning to grow dim already as the moon chases the sun back over the horizon while the Devil chases new traditions into our lives wrapped around old ceremonies, played out simpler once, though much the same.

He pulls the stolen lighter out of his pocket as we all stand in a circle in the woods in the snow.

Where did you get that?

My uncle left it in our truck, Caleb says confidently, flicking it several times with the typical surety of a fifteen-year-old who's seen it done a few times but only ever lit matches before now.

Mom's going to kill you. Cole is sure he'll be the victorious brother, though he hangs on every word Caleb says.

So what do we do now? Lochlan has his own lighter and so he finds this amusing but he watches the flame, hypnotized as always by the way it dances.

Are we supposed to sacrifice a fair maiden? Christian asks, not totally unseriously.

All eyes turn to me.

I'm not a maiden. I'm only nine! It's really cold and my boots are leaking. My toes are about to fall off but I have to wait for them because if we're this far down the path I'm not allowed to go back to our street by myself. I have to wait for Lochlan or Caleb to bring me. Unless they sacrifice me, then I won't have to go home.

No, dirtbag, we're not sacrificing Bridget. Caleb winks at me as he gets down and starts a tiny fire on a rock that isn't snow-covered, snapping small branches off, adding them to a pile along with some homework pages he had in his back pocket. Today was the last day of school. He gets the fire going and then passes out slips of what's left of the paper. We all have to write down one thing we want to say goodbye to in 1980.

I take the proffered pen and turn to write against a rock that sits just outside the circle. It's wet so the pen doesn't work very well.

I fold it up and wait for Caleb's instructions. Each of the boys throw their slips into the fire one at a time, watching them burn before moving on to the next. Finally they get to me and I throw my slip at the fire but the fire is hot and very tall now so the paper falls short, opening as it lands a foot away from the flames.

Caleb picks it up and reads it silently before folding it back up and putting it into the fire. His eyes meet mine.

Rob asks what it says.

I'm the firekeeper so I can see them but they're supposed to be private. Caleb tells him with bravado. I don't think she'll get her wish though. He's not looking at me anymore. He's watching Lochlan, who is staring at me from our curve in the circle, probably wondering what I wished for, not realizing that it would take so many more solstices to come true but my hope for this year is that my nine-year-old's wish finally has.

What was your wish that night? I snap back to the present as Caleb comes back into the room from sorting out a couple of details with Lochlan. Namely when I'll be returned and confirming what Caleb doesn't get (Christmas eve through Boxing day) because he gets tonight and tonight is somewhat sacred to the Collective, something we've observed every year since.

That we would spend this night alone together. I think tonight we can celebrate the realization that our wishes came true at the same time. 

Until one of you throws a punch, you mean. (My wish? That Locklen and Calib stop fiteing. Ha. The spelling skills of a grade five student who daydreamed instead of working in her practice book.)


Right. Until then.

Named for the most beautiful time of year in Newfoundland and rightfully so.

I couldn't handle today so I tried to soothe myself. I had a broiling hot bubble bath this morning, a leisurely breakfast of coffee and fruit with cheese, I read three pages of my latest book (Hoffman's Rules of Magic) and messaged Lochlan a hundred and fifty times but he'll be out until past lunchtime and can't come home earlier because there's an emergency at the job he doesn't have, concerning the work he doesn't need to do. I glared at Schuyler when he breezed through, and I turned down Daniel's offer to take me to get my nails done. I'd rip them off. I'd bite them anyway. I can't self-soothe, I don't know what I was thinking.

I got halfway to the boathouse and abruptly changed directions, cutting off the bottom of the driveway and heading straight across, to the garage. I went up the outside steps and knocked gently.

August opened the door after a minute, wearing yesterday's sweater and pajama pants. He was still sleeping. He looked as if he was forcing alertness and held the door wide so I could come in.

Coffee?

Let me make it, I tell him as he does a quick circuit cleaning up dishes and books from the living room.

Go ahead.

Don't clean up on my account, I tell him as I stare down the Breville. Hmm. I don't even know where to begin here.

I'll do it, Bridge. Have a seat.

Why are we formal?

Today or in general? You and I or people nowadays?

You and I today.

The weirdness that usually follows the confirmation that someone has moved up in the hierarchy, I guess. They become a pariah and we become the losers.

And where do you think you are in this?

He laughs. I'm supposed to keep the questions coming.  Not you.

Does Sam bother you?

Of course not. But he refuses to acknowledge his roles. He chooses at will and when in one mode he'll deny the other even exists. That's dangerous.

Or is it naive?

Probably that, yes.

You can talk to him.

No, if I do he'll assume I feel threatened by him.

Oh. I'll talk to him then.

He'll discount your observations as defensive or unqualified. August makes an apologetic face and then collects the two mugs to bring over. That was fast. I take a sip.  Oh. I might not ever leave. But then that would cause more problems.

Milk?

No, it's perfect. Thank you.

He settles in next to me, throwing one arm around me, holding his cup with the other. I get a kiss on top of my skull and that's the signal he gives for me to unleash the beast that is my mind all over the floor so he can pick up pieces and small glittery bits, turning them over in his hands, holding them up to the light, bringing some into focus while pushing others away. It's a puzzle and he can do it in his sleep. Better than Jake, better than Lochlan. Better than Sam. Better than Claus and Joel combined.

And certainly better than Bridget.

After I finish I settle in, letting out a long breath and he starts. Rearranging things out loud, thoughts, memories finding new places to rest, shining new lights on old things, finding a way to soothe me that I can't replicate without him. His accented voice turns into a constant lull, like a hum and my eyes get heavy, chin reaching my chest, finally at peace with everything. For the moment. For now.

He stops talking and gently takes my cup, bringing me back to wakefulness.

Better?

Almost.

You should go home. Loch's truck just pulled in.

He's home?!

Yeah. Go see him and get a nap or something. You're both exhausted lately. Then send him over for coffee later.

August?

Yes?

Thanks for being here. For the record you still rank over Sam. Maybe over me too. Talk about haunted. My self-disparagement is costly and always shows so dreadfully in my eyes as I speak of it.

We can all be even, August says. Ever the diplomat. Ever the constant. Ever the rock from the rock and we love him for it.