I AM a requiem Pokemon.

 More surgery for the end of the month for my patient and then hopefully that's it. We're seeing the light at the end of the tunnel though, that will be for one tiny thing but otherwise the mend is on. I can play nursemaid to my heart's content, though I also bit off too much and had a micro-meltdown this morning, which Ben talked me out of and then we went grocery shopping, really fast so we could be home by eight. 

Right, eight this morning. We were there, waiting outside, before seven. 

There's no people this way. 

(Fun fact, there's also very little in the bakery section! This was why we don't go on Mondays.)

Ben carried everything from the truck to the kitchen in one go. 

He did not use the hand rails at all. Sometimes I wonder about this man, who trashed his body living a life of excess and then some who becomes a walking miracle a little over a year after having his brain injured beyond what they thought a man could endure and still come back from.

Also? I realized this morning that I hate mango. Absolutely hate it with a passion. 

In other news, the rain returns tomorrow, and along with it, the ghosts.

Jesus, childproofed.

It's Sunday, October 3 and the boys have turned on the electric fence, upgraded all the semi-awful lighting on the property to bright white LEDs so now when you drive down to the gate after dark it appears you are approaching a prison compound but when I complained about things such as ambience or aesthetic I was informed it was not up for discussion. 

So many bears, PJ barks. This is safer.

(But for over a decade it's been generally fine, though we did add a lot when we bought the point.)

Then I realized other things have happened as well. I suddenly don't know any of the exterior door codes. The knives are gone. My favourite sewing scissors are gone. They've added motion sensors in areas of the house that didn't have them before. 

Ah. I get it. It is a prison now. At least until closer to Christmas, right?

Also not up for discussion. 

Lochlan looks so grim. But he also looks mildly relieved that he's organized all of this up front instead of playing catch-up every year, and I'm suddenly happy for him if he feels a little bit of comfort from that thought. 

Did you move all of the meds? Also there are scissors in the bathrooms upstairs. 

Got them. 

Did you move the alcohol? 

No, PJ finished what there was. 

Oh. That explains his mood. 

He hates this time of year, Bridget. So do I. 

I bite my tongue not to say it and he watches me make it bleed.

Having trouble delegating (and also I can still juggle with my cast. Hurray!).

Autumn is a minefield and I keep stepping on them all, blowing myself to kingdom come and then when I hit the ground I yell I'm fine, barely getting the words out before I step on another one. 

Last night for the very first time in a long time Lochlan poured a drink for me and put it at my place at the table as I came in with take out. Don't worry, PJ drove/babysat. I feel like I am the bandage and if I don't hold everything together we're going to bleed out. At the same time people are tapping me on the shoulder going By the way, here's another challenge/difficulty/problem. Good luck and I have to juggle or I can't hold on to everything. 

Everyone always says Just drop it. We'll pick it up. Don't worry. Nothing's going to go wrong. Let someone else do it. But I always feel if I do that then everything ends or everyone will leave or if I don't have control over this one thing I won't have control over anything, you know? 

You need to talk to someone, Sam says. I can help but I'm too close. We're all too close. 

No strangers, I snap as I grab for a falling sweater. Someone left it on the porch so now I have to wash it. It might have been me. I don't remember, I'm too tired. I just need some rest.

How do you organize an outer space party? You planet.

This was a request in-house. I don't know why. 

My complaints, I present to you:

1. When a very-long dead person is wished a happy 459th birthday on social media. Firstly, they don't have social media so they'll never see it and also, they never would have made it to that number anyway so what is that even all about?

2. Artists talking about their upbringing/qualifications. It's always "Daddy encouraged me to paint in the gardens and then I spent my post secondary travelling around the world taking random art programs that no one can actually afford before he gave a large donation to the gallery that now bears my name where I freelance paint. Anyone can do it! Thanks Daddy." These revelations are almost always given in pleasant, quiet voices in a room that costs more than my life.

3. Makeup tutorials that have a catfish headline like I'll teach you how to apply a winged eyeliner that won't budge! and then the video is ninety minutes of spackling their face with eight different liquid skin uh thingies followed by at least forty-five minutes of painting in a wing in stages, with tape and baking (?) and primers and architects and mentors, with a steady hand and uncreased lids, followed by a smug It's easy! Like and subscribe! OH MY GOSH. I'm going to die without this skill. Apparently the mudding and taping is part of why it works so I guess I'll sit this life out. I really am a boy.  Though Ben can do eyeliner perfectly.

4. Packaging. My pocky sticks are in a box that's sealed in plastic and then inside the box every ten sticks are wrapped in yet another round of plastic packaging. I don't know what the answer is but I think it begins with a plan for feeding the pocky sticks individually through a big straw from the pocky factory straight into my face. For the environment.

5. The one tik-tok with the "husband hack" (BARF>) that shows a man drive up to Starbucks and hold his phone out where his wife? Presumably? on speakerphone yells "I want a *insert eighteen-step complicated not-a-coffee-anymore order* and then he smiles smugly at the camera. Okay. FIRST. If your coffee order is that complicated that your spouse can't remember it that's...food for thought. And B) If you start a request with "I want a-" like a toddler with no fucking manners and you don't say please, thank you or sorry (at the very least, for an order like that) then FUCK YOU and BE NICER to servers/baristas/everyone. DON'T BE SUCH A DICK. Arghhh. Pet peave. I never met so many rude people as I did at the coffee shop where I worked.

That's it. PJ wanted me to write a complaint thread. Here you go, buddy. He thought I would be mad about the bad joke theme-week he started but I love it. The title is my contribution, today.

*~*Bonus edit: Sam's joke: Atheism is a non-prophet organisation. He'll get a re-do since that's a pun and not a joke,e xactly.

From no time to breathing space just. like. that.

Today is slightly better in the way of very good news and we're back on track. Sometimes I am surprised by how helpful and hands-on people are. By how being nice and thanking people and asking for help they will deliver and it touches me. Maybe people think I am fragile or difficult or need to be coddled. I don't know but I appreciate it as I advocate on someone else's behalf. Either way, SHIT GETS FIXED ON FRIDAY. Thanks to life, which is full of surprises. Like surprise surgery! But not for me. Anyway. Fairly minor. Easily repairable but things that also couldn't wait, even a week and so thank you for the crossed-fingers and the prayers. It helped. A lot, I think. 

***

Wearing my Jesus Loves You yellow ringer tee and a big long cardigan with pockets that I made years ago. Flared jeans from the early two-thousands. All my rings. Socks and my around-the-house clogs that I can wear outside but that also don't leave marks on the wood floor. I run into the devil and he does a double-take.

Cute shirt. 

You've seen it. 

I know. I like you in yellow. 

I don't know if I do but I like the shirt because it's soft. 

You haven't changed, you know. 

Oh, I have. I am old and jaded and hard. 

That's what you think.

Jesus knows. 

He does. And I think he would agree with me. 

Jesus Bro? 

Jesus Bro.

Shakey mother (fucker).

Long day. Bad day. Don't really want to talk about it but you know when something is tough for someone you love and you try to support them and you think it will go smoothly and then it doesn't at all?

That was today. I kind of understand how they feel now. They will never understand how I feel, though.

Bruce Springsteen peaked in high school (I am leaving but the fighter still remains).

(Also I figured out the random extra spaces that show up when I'm reading for clarity are from the part of the cast around my thumb hitting the space bar so that's why they're there, sorry. I know it's distracting and I try to grab the ones I notice.)

I am just a poor girl
Though my story's seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles
Such are promises
All lies and jest
Still, a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest

Lochlan was playing the guitar and it sounded a little bit familiar. I thought it was The Boxer and I was really looking forward to the Lie-la-lie part and the diction of the final verse but he stopped when I got to the end of the first verse with its changed pronouns, eyes wide. 

Wow, that changes everything, when you do that. 

I can make anything sinister. I can make it all wrong and no one can fix it. That's my superpower, I guess. Just fucking things up. 

This morning is Monday and we're due a thunderstorm after lunch so we are organizing outside chores really quickly and sorting out the space between now and Thanksgiving, which apparently is a couple of weeks before Halloween and I always forget due to the sheer number of former Americans in this house. 

(And the sheer fact that Halloween is a literal and figurative nightmare now.)

I am paying bills and we're delegating the months chores on the big chart and Ben's place was divided up by all of them but now that he's back (he's back he's back he's back) it's only mine that have to be covered and I still persist in doing a ton of things so very few things need to be switched up. We have the menu set and we're starting to pull together anniversary plans for Daniel and Schuyler. Lochlan and I didn't actually celebrate this year. You know, five whole years married. It still seems disingenuous somehow. Like we're cheapening decades of being together so we've decided to just mark the day quietly and not make a huge fuss. But with Daniel and Schuyler we're coming up on ten years for them and this is a very big deal. And so we have three big dinners and two holidays and Christmas is only a dozen weeks from now and...

JESUS CHRIST.

 I need this cast off so I can get things done, so I can hold on to the edge of that hole with both hands as long as I can before letting go, so I can fight off ghosts, memory fires and strange bedfellows with both hands. So I can hold my laptop up in front of my face and fend off the shame of new readers who just show up and think they're going to read the whore show and then get angry when I go in deep.

Sorry, not sorry? There is no genre here, just Bridget. Maybe Bridget IS a genre. A type. A thing. Whatever. Superpowers. Music. Hurt. Fuck off.

***

What song were you actually playing this morning? 

Streets of Philadelphia. 

Oh. Crazy. 

The crazy part is that you gave a very sophisticated guess.

Wonder who gets credit for that?

Put your hands up and run.

Sam yanks the pillow out from underneath my face. I was so enjoying drifting in and out of dreamland underneath the rain pouring all over the skylight, enjoying the crisp warmth of a Matt/Samwich. They both smell like jasmine and sandalwood. They smell like freshly laundered velvet and rain. I don't even know but I forgot to ask what the soap was they use because it's so addicting. 

Coffee's ready, sleepyhead. 

Just leave me here. 

Church in two hours. 

I don't care. 

God cares. 

We've had this argument. He does not. 

Okay, well you're not staying here so if you're not coming with me then you have to go home. 

Ah, the sting of being dismissed. How I hate it. 

Matt sits up and pulls me up with him, kissing my cheek. Bye, sunshine. 

Wow, you guys really know how to shut off a party.

I only came over to see if they were watching scary movies, as Sam had mentioned they might be on Friday. Caleb and Lochlan were holed up in the library 'talking' with the door closed, because apparently the jarring nature of seeing Lochlan's breakup speech in print hammered home some residual guilt. Lochlan, I think, was pretty sure that as an unreliable fourteen year old girl, I would also quickly forget what he said to be mean and move on. 

(Me? Do I move on? Ha. Never.)

It's Sunday. 

Right. Do you actually mind if I just stay and sleep though? 

You don't get to be alone. We'll take you back over in a few. We're heading out for breakfast before worship so if you don't want to join us then you have to turn back into a pumpkin now, I'm afraid.

Gotcha. I get up and let the sheets fall just so they know that I am way more of a fun Sunday than church.

God help us. 

I told you, good luck with that. 

Sam walks over and slides my dress over my head. Get. Ready. I have to go. 

Boo, I say as my head pops through the hole. 

Scary Bridge! He says and laughs. I get a kiss on the other cheek from him and I am turned and marched out the door. 

Finally larger than life.

Far across the emptiness I walk the night
And search the silence in the dark you left behind
I seek the stars above the world to be the guides
But they all pale against the light in your eyes

In your eyes

 

And I won't suppose to know why you walked away
But I can feel you pushing through beyond the space
To send your energy to me and I'll push through
Send your signal home and bring me back to you

 

Ben got up early to go to a meeting with Duncan and Aug so I was wide awake from the second the door closed, first as the coolness became warmth, then through his quiet movements in the dark after I heard the shower shut off. I am in and out of sleep, in dreams trying to use a washing machine that looks like a spaceship and I don't understand why it must be so complicated before I am awake again, swimming up through the bubbles, through the shirts and socks that seemingly float in space and gasp for air at the surface. My eyes burn, my lips are dry and he has left a kiss behind on the top of my head that I never acknowledged, too buys with the dream-task at hand.

My eyes survey the room. The sun is up now but the curtains are closed. I can hear the birds through the open windows though. We have a tiny brown wren and a large colourful flicker making a nest in the eavestrough right outside the window closest to the bed. I got out on the roof yesterday afternoon, planning to move it, but I was still a foot too short so I had to play dumb and not tell them I went out and I pointed out the fact that I think there is a nest there. Lochlan won't touch it. He thinks maybe it's necessary and we'll worry about it in the spring if the birds are still there. 

He stirs briefly and then is awake all at once and I forget about the birds as he pulls me in underneath him, crushing my lips against his, a breathless kiss from just at the surface. His hands fight down to my legs, and he pulls my knee up around his hip and then he pulls away, up in order to give me a proper kiss, to let me breathe just for a split second, a nod against my head to make sure everything is good and then he is moving against me, slow and gentle just until we match our movements and then he turns harsh and desperate, passionate, fire eating us both alive. 

His hair is in my face, his arms clutch me up against his heart, his hand presses my head against his chest, holding me in the air, and then he pulls us both up so he is on his knees in the centre of the bed, quilts falling away from his sinewy arms and muscled legs, his back slick with a sheen of sweat from the sudden temperature spike. He readjusts his hands under my legs, going so hard I can't breathe anymore at all and then suddenly we are at a crawl again. He pushes forward and I am lying on my back again as he holds himself up with one arm and pulls me close with the other, driving against me, sounds coming from his throat as he tries not to moan out loud. Failing as I make the smallest sound when he hits the perfect mark and just stays there, holding out until I can come with him, wherever he goes as always and that sound he makes finishes me off.  

He smiles and kisses the end of my nose and then the space between my eyes but he doesn't let go. He stays locked against me and I stretch involuntarily, shuddering out my limbs before folding them back in like a cat.

And he laughs and lets go at last. You haven't done that for years. 

You let go sooner these days. 

The laugh leaves his eyes but I'm right. We use to remain in our embrace for the night, not moving for hours before finally, reluctantly releasing each other as if it would physically wound us and it did, ever so slightly. 

I won't tonight.Or ever again.

It's fine. It's not practical-

I don't care if it's practical, Circus Peanut. 

Sure you do. Everything is practical. Everything always has to make sense. 

You never made any sense to me. You never followed the rules of the universe. You still don't. That's why I always tried so hard to make it logical.

Does it make sense now? At last?

No. 

I'm so happy to hear that.

Don't cry, Bridget. Please don't cry. I'll make it right.

You already did. You came back. You're the only who came back. 

So let the others go. 

I want them to see what they missed. 

They don't deserve it. And they already know what they missed. But they never had this. You were mine from the first moment. The only mistake wasn't made by us, it was made by those who couldn't see the truth. 

I nod again. He's right. We're in a late-fall cloying heatwave, sitting in the camper in the near-dark of the earliest morning. We just let go of each other to breathe. I have had my big stretch. He has had his coffee. 

When I grow up I'm going to get your name tattooed on me so that they see. 

Do you think anyone will read it and understand how big this love is? 

No, of course not. 

He smiles again, wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs and shakes his head. I don't even understand how this happened. All I know is that it's more valuable than anything and everyone is going to try to take it from us and we won't let them. 

I nod. I'll believe anything he says. Never stopped, even when he said so many other horrible things a few years later in order to make it easier for us to be apart, for me to hate him and move on, in order to save my life. 

You're too small. Too tenuous. Too naive. You're only good for one thing and it's not enough to be worthwhile even. Everyone is afraid you're going to break. Or cry. Or disappear on the wind. Everyone falls in love with you and it's hard to fight them while you just let them do it. And you aren't even smart enough to understand what that means, Bridget. That's the worst part. Trying to protect you while you're constantly running away from me. 

I didn't-

You wanted him to touch you and now you're lying about it-

No, I DIDN'T! 

You're only saying that now because you're scared. Because I'm not going to fight your battles for you anymore. You can have him. See if he does a better job-

Locket, don't. 

I already did. Because Cole isn't any stronger. He can look after you. The brothers Grimm can have you and you can see how your fairy tale turns out without me. 

DON'T LEAVE. 

I told you, I'm already gone. I don't love you anymore. Get over it. You're not even big enough to be a memory.

Those words make up some of the biggest scars to this day. Words spoken in desperation so that I would hate him and move on. So I would be safe. And all of it was lies but it still hurts. He really went above and beyond, showman that he is. Making it count. Making it worthwhile and making sure it had the desired effect. The ensuing years when I believed I was worthless and worked my way through all of them, letting them do what they wanted, letting me believe all the wrong things. Wreaking permanent damage and it's never going to be fixed and this is the legacy of one redheaded teenage ringmaster in over his head against the lions but putting on a show nonetheless.

What if we take some of this magic and turn back time?

I stare at him in the dark waiting. 

Close your eyes. 

I close them, trying to relax every muscle in my body. He kisses me. Softly. Slowly. Just once. 

Good morning, Peanut. Open your eyes. I open them and all I see is him. Did it work?

No. 

GODDAMMIT, he yells but he laughs afterward. It's a jaded laugh, bitter and worn down by the years, it's frustration and history and it's ours so we'll own it all, the good and the no good at all.

Last one and I'm shutting that door again.

No, Henry isn't angry at Caleb. And Caleb isn't upset about Henry's mood yesterday. Henry sometimes feels possessive when he is spending time one on one with anyone, including mom, because as I have talked about before there are a lot of people here in the Collective and there can be very little privacy. So if you're hanging out in the kitchen at least eight people will be by at various times to see what's up, try and join in out of boredom or (most grievous of all) not realize you are actually occupied and invite you to do something else. Henry is always a popular person. He's adventurous, enthusiastic and welcoming. Affectionate. He holds his own, as I talked about yesterday. 

So he and Caleb went out for breakfast, spend a long time talking and hashing out feelings, expectations and boundaries. Caleb was frank and honest with him, and Henry appreciated that, and Caleb appreciates where Henry was coming from, with regard to spending time with me without interruption and how sometimes it appears that Caleb thinks his original Collective blueprint gives him some sort of veto power over me. 

It does not. 

Henry didn't believe me, but he believes Caleb when Caleb says all he can do is ask, and that he does get lonely and he probably does pressure me and he's going to do a little soul-search to find his patience and his memory again, that it's easy for him to get off track. He loves me so much. 

Apparently Henry told him it's not a competition and that he can see that I love each one for different reasons or sometimes Venn-diagramesque, overlapping reasons. Why can't Caleb see this?

Caleb admits his weaknesses, his failings, his mistakes. That's why we're all here. To do better, together. 

I think Henry would have liked that but then the story goes that Henry laughed, finished his tea and pointed out this breakfast wasn't a job interview and the buzz-phrases and false assurances were exactly what he is talking about. 

I would say the same thing to your mother, Caleb reminds him. We're all here to make it right and to stay together as friends.

My mother's lost her mind, he said and Caleb's heart apparently fell out and rolled across the table. We always think we can blindfold our kids in order to gloss over the hard parts only to find out they could see all along. 

Henry Jacob. Caleb says it softly. She's doing the best she can and that's why there is a Collective at all. 

That was the beginning and I can't share the middle or the end, but lets just say no one was seated near out of discretion by the host, and by the time they returned to the house it was almost noon and I was fretting but they apparently kept talking until it didn't hurt anymore and then went for a long walk before returning home. They brought flowers for me. They brought reassurances. Henry isn't planning to start lashing out but he does want to see a lot more help and a lot less of me being left to my own devices even as I am known for going off alone and it isn't anyone's fault. And he doesn't want Caleb to ever argue with me again or Caleb will have to answer to Henry for it.

It's almost as if I knew I would never be equal to them all in strength so I just went off and made someone who is.