Folding blind.

So nice to see your face again
Tell me how long has it been
Since you've been here
(since you've been here)
You look so different than before
But still the person I adore
Frozen with fear
I'm out of love but I'll take it from the past
I'll let out words cause I'm sure It'll never last

And I've been saving
These last words for one last miracle
But now I'm not sure
I can't save you if
You don't let me
You just get me like I never
Been gotten before

Maybe it's the bitter wind
A chill from the Pacific rim
That brought you this way
(that brought you my way)
Do not make me think of him
The way he touch your fragile skin
That hunts me everyday
I'm out of love but I can't forget the past
I'm out of words but I'm sure it'll never last

And I've been saving
These last words for one last miracle
But now I'm not sure
I can't save you if
You don't let me
You just get me like I never
Been gotten before

I think it surprised me so badly that the roses bloomed a second time that I figured other miracles were likely and I took off toward the cliffs.

After all, the only one home watching me was Daniel, and he had been asleep for hours. I ran out of things to do and so I went down to the garden to pull some weeds and on the other side of the fence...all these new roses! Then as I looked more closely I could see the entire wall of bushes was full of new blooms.

Dark ones this time, but maybe I'll be gifted with another single baby-pink flower.

It must have been wonderful to wake up to the perimeter alarm blaring all through the house. Did I tell you they set one up? Yes, precisely for today or whatever day it would be that I would scramble down the path and stop just short of throwing myself into the sea but I sat down this time and hooked my hands over the edge against the wet stone outcropping that may or may not support all of my hundred and four pounds.

I looked down and to my delight, far below, affixed to the rocks just under the surface I could see them, in between breaking waves. My ghosts looking up at me. Jacob, most likely furious that I would put him somewhere so dumb and Cole probably trying to mentally connect with me to convince me to jump and spread the pain around just a little more, like a bad rash. He would do that.

That was as much of a thought as I could get out before I was grabbed from behind and lifted away from the edge, briefly, delightfully flying out over it, feet swinging in thin air, Daniel's arms locked around me because the one thing he never wants to be responsible for in his whole life will be sleeping while I die.

They've all come home now and have been yelling at me off and on now for over an hour and I'm getting tired. I want to change my clothes and put on something warm and dry. I want to swim out to the rocks and see the boys but I'm such a poor swimmer and PJ was right, this was the worst idea ever and I'm stuck wanting to get to them to the point where I don't think about much else other than the fact that suddenly, just now, I realized that everyone dies before forty and I'm going to be forty on my next birthday which means I'm already older and Jacob is frozen in time at thirty-six but he's supposed to be older than me and smarter than I am and why the hell has he done this and left me here? Why can't he be the one who has a little too much to drink and laugh and sing me a song?

Why is Ben in this place in my heart because I swore never ever and how the hell did I allow Caleb such prolific access into all of our lives in some sort of knee-jerk fashion to undo the years of restraining orders and forbidden contact that left him hating me and torturing me every chance he got and now we've reached some sort of wonderful, actual relationship, which everyone hates but I'm still testing the waters to see if they are warm enough and I'll make up what's left of my own mind, thank you.

No one loves me enough to stay.

They won't listen anyway. Just like they didn't when I pointed out I wasn't going to jump off the cliff and I was with Jake and he wouldn't have let me jump off the cliff anyway because he wouldn't want my light to go out. He always said Don't let your light go out, princess. Don't let the demons win. Don't let your head overtake your plans, pigalet.

I don't have any plans save for wanting to sit there in the rain, surrounded by roses with my Jacob and just listen to him tell me things because I'm happy he came but they wouldn't let me. They never let me do what I want to do. They never listen.

Oh I've done it now.

Portrait (She knew).

You know it's going to be a good day when Caleb walks into the room and instantly remarks on the lack of baubles on his favorite pastime.

Who are you, Howard Hughes?

He just winked and squared himself with his invisible courage for today. It's Father's Day, an awkward, difficult day for us where the boys jockey for position and are equally touched and left ruined by the gestures of the children to honor an entire room full of real and surrogate fathers, each one bringing something incredibly specific and necessary to their lives. Collectively the boys represent separate and equal parts of love and care to the children, and the children themselves have never failed to acknowledge that to the men who love them so much. They are like me in that regard. Instant forgiveness, instant affection.

However.

There are certain levels of affection and attention that the kids bestow on the boys. They have their own hierarchy, and they have their own preferences. PJ, Daniel and Benjamin are instant comfort, always available, patient to a fault, permissive and loving. Lochlan is their ready-steady rock. As long as he is around all is right with the world. He looks out for them in a strange, appreciative way. They understand his logic comes from a slightly different place. Caleb is Daddy Warbucks. As long as they behave properly and display their fine manners and intelligence they have learned they can have the moon from him. They also know that he is quick to anger and unforgiving. Like Cole. They do not ask for things, but they are drawn to that the same way I am.

Maybe because it's as close as we can get. Maybe it's because it's an authority that brings a small measure of comfort in the familiarity. It's what they know when everything isn't water fights and movies and stargazing and making ice cream. They know fathers are not fairy tales that are only fun. They know fathers will enforce the rules and be the final judge and jury. They know fathers will set limits and work to raise them up properly as well as happily.

Caleb arrived this morning, dashing and unhurried in his little silver sportscar and a crisp pair of jeans with a button-down dress shirt, looking like a forties movie star, acting like he had everything in the world, when in fact the only thing he has is now tied up in knots, tangled in the welfare of his brother's widow and her knights, because he decided to take a risk and place it all on black, betting everything he had on the only thing he believes in.

Me.

Baudelaire would call him out for this one.

Even in the centuries which appear to us to be the most monstrous and foolish, the immortal appetite for beauty has always found satisfaction.

I am supposed to be making an effort to ensure that he is properly recognized as the living blood of my children, but all I can do is stand in the shadow by the window and watch with morbid curiosity to see how they react to him. A relief follows, and it's as if Cole had never left them, they simply replaced their memories with that of the uncle who managed to miss the first six years of their lives mostly and now suddenly we can't seem to take a deep breath without him making a note of it and rotating the world accordingly in case we miss something.

I broke his brother's heart so badly he died and for that I was given everything, including the gift I could not return, the confirmation that Satan owns my youngest child. I was forced to replace my memories of Cole with Caleb's face. And I have. I've been good. I have listened, like a child, as the rules were spoken to me slowly and repeated until there was no ambiguity left. I am now the most vulnerable, requiring the most direction, supervision and care. The children grow and mature and Bridget never changes.

It isn't a turret that the knights guard anymore, it's the nursery and so the jostling for position remains. The need for approval rusts into the metal on their armor and coats their shields in desperation.

An equal fool, I extended the lunch invitation because I always choked back this overwhelming, oxygen-sucking need to please Cole so that he wouldn't become angry. And then like a princess, I cast my coldest look around the room, reproach on ice, a challenge to question my final rule on behalf of my children. He stays. No fists.

Lady of the flies, the immature leader who fuels her needs with her wants and couldn't raise a glass half the time, let alone these two beautiful creatures born of rage and fear and then molded into something wonderful. That is thanks to the boys.

And that's just a sliver of today. A small taste, a single drop of the blood I spill to quench his thirst for more of me because I don't know what to do with these feelings and so I pretend. I pretend I'm alright and the kids are alright and everyone gets along and we give cards and drawings and I pretend, like everybody else, not to see how he stares at me across the table as he exclaims over the menu the children chose for lunch, so at ease with them with so much tension beneath the surface it hums a steady drone in my head, between my ears that I'm forced to excuse myself and leave the room, fearing my brain might start to leak out from my ears and my heart might follow that lead. I'll pay for this later. Ben will look for my hierarchy. Everything costs me something and I am emotionally unemployed.

It hurts. I don't know why. Some days are hard. The kids are doing a fine job though. They always do when they have everyone's attention. Just like their mother. And they know that in a short while he will drive away from the house in his silver sports car and we can go back to breathing full breaths and not watching what we say around him, just in case it is the wrong thing.

On the way out he cups my face and smiles ruefully, reading my unfocused eyes.

Considering Baudelaire?

Yes.

'I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy. '

'I have cultivated my hysteria with pleasure and terror.'

Very good one, Bridget. See you on Tuesday for a drive and some lunch?

No, I have nothing to wear.

Perfect. Just wear the bracelet I gave you. That's all you need.

I frowned as he kissed my cheek and walked out the door. I threw that bracelet into the ocean the day he gave it to me. And I hate the fact that he is Henry's father. I pay the price for their hierarchy. I pay dearly. As I look around the room and feel the eyes on me, I see that we all do.
It makes me sad.

I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in
And stops my mind from wandering
Where it will go
I'm filling the cracks that ran through the door
And kept my mind from wandering
Where it will go
And it really doesn't matter if I'm wrong
I'm right
Where I belong I'm right
Where I belong.
See the people standing there who disagree and never win
And wonder why they don't get in my door.
I'm painting the room in a colorful way
And when my mind is wandering
There I will go.
And it really doesn't matter if
I'm wrong I'm right
Where I belong I'm right
Where I belong.
Silly people run around they worry me
And never ask me why they don't get past my door.
I'm taking the time for a number of things
That weren't important yesterday
And I still go.

A new lip gloss collection for Ben to plunder.

I never did make it to very late last night. I believe I crashed about five minutes after I posted and was asleep in five seconds, another headache threatening to undermine the night. Another inability to sleep for any length of time save for a few precious hours in Ben's arms.

Today was a fast day that became slow. The kids and I looked after house things and gardening this morning, then made some lunch and declared it to be kid-time. We went to a new coffee shop and treated overselves to chocolate biscotti (the kids) and iced coffee (Bridget) and then went back and loaded up on popsicles to go. When we arrived back home, Ruth gave me a makeover. I'm still sporting the white lipstick, green and blue eyeshadow, copious cheek glitter and headband she chose for me, plus the tiny fabric butterflies she clipped all through my hair.

After my big makeover, we went back outside and drew hearts and flowers and music notes all over the front walkway with Henry who freaked if we walked on any of the lines and then he decided it was too hot to be outside anymore and Ruth took her drawings to the shade of the veranda, and I still have an inch of my coffee left and my brain is finally at cruising altitude for the day. I haven't heard from Ben for over an hour so I'm hoping against hope that that means he's on the way home and we might be able to have a dinner that starts before eight at night or more than ten minutes to talk about the day.

I hope Ben is on the way. He really needs to see this eyeshadow. And the butterflies. I have a feeling I'll be picking them out of my hair for the rest of the summer. And twenty bucks says he'll happily be Ruth's next customer. He looks awfully cute with butterflies too.

Day Tripper (and God bless Peter).

Please excuse the mess. Just pointing out I'm not touching the absinthe. No way in hell, no. Also, someone managed to dig out all the mashups (covers? homages?) of the Beatles, Cheap Trick and Type-O Neg.

It's going to be a long, loud and awesome night.

And I know I sound hideously ungrateful. I'm not. There's a million things to be so thankful for and I have noted every last one. I promise. If you knew me outside of this page, you would understand that. If you don't, then I'm sorry. I'm really a nice person underneath the princess part.

I promise.

Man in a box.

Won't you come and save me.

I wish tonight for a white linen-covered table overlooking the water, a damned good bottle of wine and even better coffee, and a meal of pasta with greens and exotic cheese, and a basket of very freshly baked bread. I'll let the server place the napkin on my lap for me and I'll sit and contemplate the waves and the breeze while I savor every delicious bite. Then a long walk to look at boats and then I'd like to watch a movie that makes me laugh and be glad I saw it.

Reality (which I have come to resent) dictates that instead I'll cook a quick dinner for the children and then a second dinner for Benjamin when he comes home and then in the blink of an eye we'll eat and go to bed and be asleep before the sun goes down.

I. hate. this. schedule. It's been three days (a lie. It's been six months.).

Hate is too mild of a word but I know. I understand the point of the work and the way it flows and I am so incredibly grateful that he is appreciated, in demand and still loves it but after the way this year started I just have this overwhelming urge to grab him by the front of his shirt and push, pull and stuff him into a box and wrap the box in chains and padlock it shut and maybe learn a little bit of welding too, and then I would hold it carefully behind my back in both hands and shake my head innocently, ignorantly while people walked all around me wondering where he could be.

Yes, that's what I would like to do.

And in a perfect world, I would.

Thankfully nothing is perfect. Ben wouldn't like it. He needs to be tinkering if he is awake, there is simply no other way. He likes to be busy, he likes to just put his head down and ride out the difficult parts and he likes to focus on the present.

He likes burgers and fries and napkins with well-known brands printed on them. Quick and easy. He doesn't drink wine. He doesn't know what the hell to do with the side of me that hates reality except to say that it doesn't matter if I don't like it, I'm stuck with it.

Begrudged acceptance isn't quite what I had in mind this evening. The move is finished, we're just about through the last of the paperwork concerning address changes and becoming full-fledged west-coasters, we have new furniture and everything is put away and hung up and cleaned six times over and I have sought out every last amenity we need, where the best place is to buy guitar strings and lactose-free milk and good bread and the skincare I like to use. I have found neat places to take the children and we've explored the woods and the creeks and the rivers and the pacific and the road and the parks.

What I need, badly, is a vacation.

But I don't want to see my suitcase ever again and I'm still weirdly thrilled that I can leave my hairbrush, my perfume, seventeen lip glosses and my jar of cocoa butter just sitting out all over the place across the giant counter in the bathroom and all of it is still there next time I walk into the bathroom. I still haven't decided if I want the window in the walk-in closet to have the blinds open or closed. Am I going to flip the light on and walk in naked and someone outside might see? And really, who is going to be right outside my window at that hour? (Shhh, we know that answer haha).

So I need a home-cation or a stay-cation or whatever the hell it's called when you just take time off and have fun instead of just working your way through list after list and hoping to nurture and fulfill everyone while scrubbing toilets, shopping and cooking and maybe spending three minutes a day writing a journal entry or downloading a new theme for the ever humming BlackBerry.

I need a fucking white-linen table and a good dinner. Really that's it. Not the moon tonight, not a flight overseas or thousands of dollars worth of luxuries, just some pasta and wine.

And Ben in my hands, chained inside a box. Just so I could enjoy him for once instead of continuing to say goodbye all the time.

Small world.

The rain has closed off the world to me today. I haven't seen the water or the mountains yet. It sort of feels as if this is an island and I am alone forever and no one will ever know who I am. The fog brought with it a steady downpour and fresh air that I have opened every window wide to collect inside and get rid of the stale overnight warmth.

I have rainboots now. They are black (of course) with pastel polkadots and they look cute with my long black coat and my Edward Gorey umbrella, or so I call it. It's very tall with a spiral handle and it opens in a bell-shape with a little lace fringe and it looks as if it belongs to one of Gorey's Tinies.

Oh, wait. It does.

Garden tools can't be fenced. Can they?

Humanity and I are having a difference of opinion today as my faith has been tested this morning and the week has grown long with overtime, illness, theft and exhaustion. Add in all of the drama and PJ alternately being fed up with me and sad that I have faced such derision over my memorials. I'm done. Is it Saturday yet? Is it Sunday? Can I go back to bed? Can I just cry now?

No, I think I'll laugh. We've reached those levels of ridiculousness here.

Some guard dog Bonham is too, by the way. Snoring away on the floor at the foot of our bed, failing to alert us to the two stupid teenage boys breaking into my yard. Well, guess what, boys? That expensive jacket you dropped as you took off with my stuff? I have it and fuck you, hell no, you can't ever have it back. And it's worth more than the things you took so perhaps the joke is on you.

And when you grow up and some kid steals your stuff, consider it full circle. And it will happen. Ask me how I know. Good luck to you.

In other news, half a bottle of Advil and a pot of coffee and I'm almost human again. The ice pack helped, as did a mini-neck massage and a magnificent, concentrated effort to distract from the pain in my head. My headache that started on Sunday is almost gone. Finally. I can uncurl my toes and roll my flesh back down over the tips of my fingers where I slid the tips along the rack of knives so that something besides my head would hurt for a change.

I didn't actually do that, but I considered it very seriously for quite a while.

If I could paint a picture for you today it would be in shades of grey, moving away from what began as total blackness, hopeful that when we reach the other side of the canvas the world will be colored in a hint of turquoise and blush and the work will evoke a sense of peace instead of one of dread and foreboding. I don't know though, we're not there yet.

All in a day's work. There's nothing remarkable about my day. The children are home sick from school getting over their colds, I am attempting to run completely out of groceries because I haven't found time to shop yet and Caleb is still singing. All week long which is new and not all that bad really. As long as he isn't picking fights he isn't horrible.

Ben is wonderful but invisible. Head down, ears closed, focused as he works his magic because that's what he does and I may wind up horribly depleted in Ben-stores for the next several weeks but I will see him at bedtime and for toast in the mornings and otherwise thank God for cell phones and dreams. At least this time he doesn't have to go to work on an airplane and only get home every month or so. He'll be home every night, but distracted and consumed and oh I really hate these parts but after twelve years or so I'm getting used to deadlines and clients with changes and how things look when you don't have any breathing room. All of the boys have shown me that side of life and I believe I could write a book on it, if I wanted to write one but maybe instead I'll just write some other things instead. I'm sending some things out early next week, it's been a long time since I even felt like dealing with submissions but I am because life is about moving forward in some strange meandering road of self-improvement and then self-reliance.

Somewhere I became lost and some days I don't think this is my road, but someone else's and they must know the turns and the landmarks to watch for while nothing looks familiar to me but I'm hoping eventually to come to an exit and I can get off and circle back and find the right road. Or doze my own. I don't even think I have a road, proper. I think my path is dirt, softened grass and mud baked into a marked footpath, wide enough for two and then one and then two and then one and it goes along like that and every now and then the bottom drops out and you fall down a steep embankment and then you climb up the next hill, scratched and dirty and look out over the valley, the sunrise blinding you until you exclaim out loud and promptly trip over a rock and land on your ass.

Oh yeah. That's Bridget's path right there.

(If you own a MEC Tango Belay, come and get your coat, you stupid punk. And bring my things back with you.)

Part two: Proof of identity.

All you are
I have made
All that I wanted
I gave to you
I have no sympathy
I show no mercy
All that I hated
I placed in you

Sunday afternoon in the rain I stood at the very edge of my cliff and I looked out over the sea, sand and grit and bits of concrete stuck to the bottoms of my bare feet, wet hair tangled from the wind, wrapped in one of Ben's big hoodies for warmth but I couldn't get warm.

Low tide.

I stepped closer and that was all it took for the house behind me to explode, doors opening, voices eaten by the roar of the wind in my ears.

The fastest runner reached me first. I could tell by the pattern of his feet and the lack of heavy breath. Caleb.

Princess.

I'm not going to jump, if that's what you think. I need to see them. This is as low as the tide is ever going to be.

Ben's voice next.

Bridget. Sweetheart. We really need to move those so you can see them safely. It's okay to make a mistake.

I've made so many, Benjamin.

No, you're doing pretty good, actually. But we can change them so it's easier.

This is fine.

Not for me.

These were for me and for the children.

And what do they have? They aren't allowed here.

I have ordered smaller plaques and a tree for each.

Isn't that good enough for you?

No.

What can I do, Bridget?

Let me come here without everyone freaking out.

I'm sorry, Bridget, I can't do that.

Traitor. You all want to forget about them.

Never, princess.

He took my hands and bent them up behind my back and held on a little too firmly and I knew that if I stepped away from him I wouldn't die. It's sad that I can't ever give these men that same kind of comfort. I have tried. I can't pull it off for stupid stunts like these.

He came around and stood beside me, still with the painful grip on both of my hands, and he leaned out over the edge.

I know why you did it.

Tell them.

I thought PJ would at least ask you not to come here alone.

He did.

So why are you here?

Because I don't listen.

Ben laughed. A short, sad laugh and he squeezed my hand.

I want to make it better. I thought this might help you, princess. Maybe I screwed up.

I could have installed her downtown in a safe location.

Caleb's voice broke in, a jarring reminder that there were eight other people watching our exchange.

Ben dropped my hands and turned to face Caleb. Caleb's face changed from contempt back into fear. I'm still standing right on the edge. One big gust of wind or rock slide and I'm at the bottom of the cliff where PJ installed the bronzed plaques engraved with the names of my dead husbands, their birth and death dates and one line I chose for each, which I won't share right now. He used concrete screws, and drove them in when the rocks were almost dry, the words facing the cliff so technically you can read them with binoculars from here but you can only see them at low tide and they are not accessible on foot, only by boat. He said it was a fool's errand and cursed me the entire time, and Chris held the ropes and didn't say a word. We don't have a boat. PJ rappelled down.

Ben-

She's not yours, asshole. Stop acting like him. You aren't Cole. She can't get Cole back. You're fucking with her head so bad. Just stop it.

I didn't have to turn around. Thanks to history, I was well aware that Ben would charge Caleb and probably knock him down onto the wet grass and then he'd let him get up just to hit him again. Then the others would intervene because it's not a fair fight. Ben only ever had a fair fight against Jacob. They were the same size. Everyone else is just dumb to pick a fight with someone who can't control their emotions.

With someone like me.

A different voice now. Sweet Daniel.

Bridget, come here.

I turned and wavered slightly and Lochlan closed his eyes. Praying. What the fuck.

Please, Bridget.

I shook my head.

Stop fighting. All of you. Just stop it. This isn't what I wanted. Go away.

We know, baby.

Ben stopped and helped Caleb up, and then came back toward me and I put my hand up.

It isn't PJ's fault, and it's not Chris'. Cole and Jacob belong there. I put them there and I want the, to stay there. Please. Please don't take them away.

What am I supposed to do Bridget? I can't put a safety net around this place. I can't watch you twenty-four hours a day.

That's why you have help. You're all my safety net.

When the trees come, and the other plaques, will you go there instead?

Unless someone comes with me here, then yes.

Oh, Jesus, Bridge, you're killing me. Come here.

He put his arms out and I left the edge and went into them, my customary face plant into the buttons on his flannel shirt a welcome shell-dotted warmth, the percussion of his heartbeat proof that he would keep his word and leave the plaques alone. He kissed the top of my head and I wrapped my arms around his back and looked up at him. Tired in the harsh light, sober and anxious, quietly smug in the display of affection that comes so easily for him while the rest wait for me to make the first move.

Lochlan turned and walked back up to the house, shaking the rain out of his hair. Caleb examined his clothing to see if he would be forced to drive back to the city to change before doing anything else and the others just watched. Quietly. Respectfully pretending to stare out to sea but honed in peripherally, ever mindful that Ben and I are the collective instabilities and when mixed together tend toward impulsive, dangerous pursuits. Mindful that we whisper and they usually miss it.

Who speaks the words you'll listen to, Bridget?

I don't know, Ben.

He just holds on tighter. I still have no answers and he's the only one alive who understands what this feels like.

Crypt tick.

Tomorrow's baking includes banana bread, chocolate cupcakes with chocolate icing and peach cobbler. If I bake the fruit into things it tends to get eaten a lot faster.

I'll keep the pears to carry. They come in handy.

Now here's a picture of a volcano. In a different country even. This is Mount Baker in Washington state. Coy, I know.

Tomorrow I'll finish what I started on Saturday. I promise.

You know one of the strangest things about Caleb? If he's angry and he walks into the room, the temperature instantly drops by about ten degrees.

I find that freaking weird. But really, his emotions aren't my concern. I have enough of my own.

Part one of one of the hard parts.

I had my head on PJ's shoulder, face against his neck. I wasn't going to move because if I saw what was in his eyes, I might let him off the hook and I didn't intend to do that. No, I intended to make him risk his life to fulfill some strange idea I had that I would probably regret later but for right now it needed to be done this way.

Chris stood in front of us, waiting. I could see his boots but I didn't look at his face either. Just in case.

Are you sure, Bridget? Because once it's done we can't undo it. You can't touch it. You aren't allowed to get to it. You have to understand that.

I know.

So what happens when you need to see it?

I can call someone to come and help me look at it.

And maybe if we get a boat..

Yes, but only those ways.

Are you sure?

I think it will be okay like this, PJ.

Chris shook his head.

Chris. it will work. It makes sense.

None of this makes sense, princess. Put a bench in the garden. Screw the plaques on it. Done. This isn't an idea that ever should have been taken seriously.

Don't condescend to me, Chris.

I'm not, Bridge. I'm trying to keep you safe.

His eyes flashed and I was treated to the perfect vision of Chris in full armor, holding his sword. Glorious red beard flaming his moods into fruition.

I know. But please.

The plea brought PJ's arm a little tighter around my head.

Let's get this show on the road guys.

Going now to fix the plaques from the benches to their new locations. May die in the process, cross your fingers. It's pouring, and slippery and I picked a hard-to-access place.

More later, if I survive.

Oh, stop worrying. PJ is coming too. And Chris. He's the expert climber after all, well, since Jake isn't here anymore. Jake would have had NO trouble with this task. But if Jake was here I wouldn't have this heavy piece of bronze with his name on it, now, would I?

Boy, am I grumpy! PJ is in for such a treat.

Happy Endings.

She's okay!

There are no right opinions on this, trust me.

I read the news.

And the hardest job I know of is being a parent.

Last night I had tears come up when Ruth came bursting out of school with her sign up sheet for band next year. Is she that old already? I thought.

Tears again, mixed with laughter when Henry attempted to pour himself into his summer pajamas and said they were fine, when they were suddenly three sizes too small. Is he this big already? I thought.

I struggle daily with the small decisions and big ones too. Trying to strike a balance for their lives between fun and nurturing. Limits within which they are free spirits. Caged birds or butterflies in a net. I try not to be a helicopter or an armchair or whatever the parental behavior tagline du jour is from the New York Times but really, everything is a judgment call, including our interpretations of how other people parent.

Do I let them have french fries on the side? I know they'll eat more that way but are they getting enough vegetables?

Do I let them stay up until ten to play Rock Band or should I insist they take their books and go to bed at eight-thirty so they have energy for the weekend, when they can stay up later?

Do I insist on the rain boots in the downpour or let them wear sneakers and have wet feet all day so their friends don't say they are babies?

Do I let my sixteen year old child sail around the world alone or do I forbid it and risk her blistering resentment for the rest of her life for not allowing her to achieve this goal? Goal, defined loosely here. Item on bucket list? Fool's mission? Incredible achievement? Once again, everyone's going to have an opinion. But raising a child involves having to be the bad guy sometimes too. It's far easier to give in to your child's whims than to stand your ground and resist, keeping the limits you have set because they work for you and they work for your child. You know your child best. Your child's awareness of self develops so slowly, it's like summer pajamas you don't realize you have grown out of until it's too late and suddenly you are self aware. But oh how they nag and mope and become impossible.

But it isn't too late. Self-awareness continues to develop every moment for the rest of your life and things you thought were so important and so necessary fail to be so and having the freedom to try and fail and try and succeed or maybe just think about trying are just as important as common sense and rules of thumb. You'll never be as smart as you think you are when you're sixteen.

Maybe teenagers don't need to be sailing around the world or climbing Mount Everest or breaking records, getting sponsors and writing books. Where do they go from there? Is the pursuit of a early-life goal worth not getting the chance to live the rest of your life because you squandered your years on a foolish teenage idea? Or is it so incredibly intuitive to have such a thirst for a goal at that age that all attempts should be made to achieve it because that is what you were put on earth to do?

I don't know quite what I'll do if and when Ruth comes to me at sixteen and tells me she wants to break some difficult, dangerous record that few adults, let alone children, would attempt. And I doubt I'll have any better answers for you when she's twenty-six, or thirty-six, or twelve for that matter.

I just remember yesterday I was envious of her logic, because she said she chose the clarinet to play in band because it's small and easy to carry up the hill.

When I was eleven, I picked the french horn. I also grew up on the side of a hill.

Maybe she is meant for great things. I hope against hope they don't include winding up lost at sea. Keep your fingers crossed that Abby's parents don't live to regret the choices they have made in allowing their children to carry out their dreams, I can't imagine what they feel right now. And above all, keep your fingers crossed for Abby. She has her whole life ahead of her.

I wonder what type of parent she'll be?

Some days I do better than anyone else, oddly enough.

We don't talk about these things, normally.

All wet hey you might need a raincoat
Shakedown dreams walking in broad daylight
Three hundred sixty five degrees
Burning down the house
It was once upon a place sometimes I listen to myself
Gone come in first place
People on their way to work baby what did you expect
Gonna burst into flame

My house is out of the ordinary
That's right don't want to hurt nobody
Something sure can sweep me off my feet
Burning down the house

PJ met me at the door this morning, rain dripping off his beard, leaving a pool on the tiles. He nodded. Voraciously.

You got it right, Bridget, except for one thing. We would have stopped him. You know? I can be as selfish as the rest of 'em and some days I would have loved to throw preacher off a cliff myself because he locked you down so badly but at the end of the day the hurt he brought upon you is something I never would have let him get away with and ask any of us, we would all say that to you. At any hour of any day. He didn't have the right to do this and I still don't know how you get out of bed in the morning sometimes.

For this, PJ.

And I went and took my morning hug from him, fourth in the day so far. They average twelve minutes apiece, you know.

Chivalry under pressure.

You told me you loved me
That I'd never die alone
Hand over your heart
Let's go home
Everyone noticed
Everyone has seen the signs
I've always been known to cross lines

I'm sure I have the perfect vision of how it went.

His face was drawn and tired, dark circles underneath his pale blue eyes. He stood in the clearing and waited, the forest quiet and dark around him, no sun or sounds able to penetrate the trees this deep.

He didn't have to wait long. Suddenly they were close at hand, some approaching on foot, others dismounting and leaving their horses without a word, just the customary pat on the flank that means stay here, I'll be back soon. They approached him with reverence, awe and courage and he nodded and met their eyes easily, despite being the only unarmed man present for hundreds of miles. They approached him with heart, and that's why they were chosen in the first instance. That is all that ever mattered. Not life, not death.

He raised his hands to welcome them and his face was joyful. Loyal until the end. Some of them were spattered with blood, some had dented armor, one was recently stitched, one still clutched two swords, one in each hand, fresh from the battlefield, still breathing heavily, eyes wild.

The right choices. He exhaled.

Give her everything you have. Do not mourn the changes of her mind. Lift her up and encourage her. Be near when she calls your name. Do not despair when she fails to acknowledge you in favor of another. Provide for her. Protect her. Fight for her. Love her with all of your being. Failure will not be accepted. Make your pledge now before your brothers and before God and honor it for rest of your lives.

I will, said out loud, a chorus of deep voices, himself included and he nodded, satisfied that these were good men, men of their word.

I have done all I can do now, my brothers. It's up to you now.

Brief looks of confusion flickered across their eyes and one by one they stepped forward to embrace him, exchanging hard knocks against backs to confirm their pledge and devotion to each other, to their cause. Deep within their hardened souls they knew he would no longer be with them.

He shook a final extended hand and brought his fingertips to his lips and then extended his hands to the collective once more as his eyes filled with tears. He turned around and jumped off the cliff. No one made a move to prevent his actions, they were busy making their way out of the clearing to fulfill their covenant. No one saw what became of him. Their only focus now was her.

Yes, I bet that's exactly how this happened.

Circle once and come back.

In the distance
Light years from tomorrow
But far beyond yesterday
She is watching
Heart aching with sorrow
She is broken, as she waits
Hoping that when all is said and done, we learn to love and be as one

Oh Starlight
Don’t you cry we’re gonna make it right before tomorrow
Oh Starlight
Don’t you cry we’re going to find a place where we belong
And so you know you’ll never shine alone

I came home late last night.

One last chance to show you the kind of man I can be, he said as we boarded the plane.

One last chance to show you I mean you no harm, he said, as he took my hand and kissed it and a shiver went down my spine.

One last chance to show you I have always loved you, he said as he lifted his cupped hand and poured hot water down my shoulders and over my back. I closed my eyes and leaned against his chest, my forehead against his clavicle. I let his arms draw me in and I let go of everything I was holding. My worries. My fear. His request for this moment. I let the heat of the water overcome me and my mind was blank, gloriously parked in a wooded glade, not racing down the asphalt at two hundred kilometres an hour. Picking flowers would have taken too much effort, I just stared into the sun through the trees.

Princess.

I jolted and my nose bumped his ear as I raised my head. Caleb passed me my wine, against my better judgement of things made of glass in the bathtub. I took it but he held it for an extra beat in case I wasn't actually coherent.

You fell asleep.

Almost.

He smiled his millionaire smile and I took a sip from the glass and when the steam cleared from my eyes I made a note that he wasn't Cole and that was okay because he was Caleb, like Cole 2.0, new and improved, richer and longer lasting and I laughed out loud and I swear to God that man doesn't count his worth in terms of dollars anymore but that's what men are like when I am around.

It was a good weekend, an uproariously fun weekend, full of airplanes and crowds and wine and kind Russians and kind Czechs (?) too and singing and sleeping and holding our breath that first day during qualifying when I thought I was about to see a plane crash with my own eyes but thankfully it didn't and I'm glad for the health of the pilot and for the fact that last night I had to board the teeny-tiny private jet to come back home. I'm glad for Ben because he had an absolute blast and came away with a new effort to get and keep his newfound sobriety in order to regain his wings which could someday make him the oldest pilot in the air race (but don't tell him that part) and he was content to share his stake in Bridget with no strings attached like the ones that tie me to Lochlan because I don't need-need Caleb. I just want him in my life and I'm done making apologies to the one-love folks and to the boys. I'm just done making apologies period. I'm finally at a place in my life where I can choose what I want and maybe that's mixed with a tiny streak of recklessness for the simple fact that I can't bring the dead back to life. But only for color and flavour. I like my recklessness light.

Suffice it to say there's a huge comfort to be gained from standing in between the Dark Lords. I never once felt like a ghost could sneak up on me, never felt the need for Lochlan's comfort, the kind I have sought out religiously since 1979. I just wanted to have fun and I did, so everyone should be happy for me. My face hurt from smiling. That doesn't happen. Caleb and Ben? Both romantic and that doesn't happen all the time either but when it does it's like Christmas mixed with fireworks and cotton candy and God. Like holy sticky exploding things.

NICE.

Snort.

Ben even bought me flowers, which I brought home with us. Gerbera daisies in the colors of the planes I liked best because I mentioned in passing that I wanted to have so many flowers in the house it would be positively stupid. Because he hears everything and misses nothing and tries so hard to accommodate my every whim, even the really stupid/bad idea ones, and because he's so incredibly generous with me I think all the boys should get down on their knees and worship him if we rolled like that but we don't.

And Lochlan didn't much like the fact that I went away with Ben and with Satan but when I came back he was quick to be cajoled into a long hold and then he could see how he has an addiction of a different sort and in his heart he lives on his knees for me, and that's ironic because in our spare time late at night he would spend hours standing in the middle of the dirt road behind the tent, long after the crowds had filtered away, teaching me how to juggle. Patiently. Tirelessly.

One last chance to make you the star of the show, Bridgie.

And now I am.

And oh, I think I finally having the juggling part down. At last. This is awesome.

Waiting for Ben and Caleb to stop talking already. Lying down in the back of the car playing with Ben's iphone. Seriously buzzy like a little tiny well dressed well loved well drunked bumblebee. Haha. This is awesome. I had so much fun then ont lu thing I left missed was my lochlan but he wasn't hrer.boo.

This is what being a Bond girl is really like.

Every rogue pilot in Canada seems to be here. This is candy. Ben and Caleb are getting along smashingly, and it's sunny and twenty-five degrees. I'm just enjoying the men and my pretty dresses and the excitement. I am the excitement in some circles. So there.

But since you can here hoping for something exciting on my journal, here, lookie at what PJ sent me earlier. Hypnotic and amazing. I am stunned. Music by Archive. Enjoy.

Going to fly out to see the air race. Back Monday.

The space in between.

I found perfection last night in a hot bathtub, my knees hooked over Ben's thighs, my head on his chest. We sat like that, in the dark, in the steam, without talking, without thinking. Then we reluctantly climbed out of the giant bathtub, which from now on will be referred to as Gulliver's lap pool, and went to sleep.

I found perfection at dinner tonight in pork chops simmered in mushrooms, salted baby potatoes, green beans and the garlic buttered rolls I have mastered. It tasted delicious. Like summer, only when you don't barbecue and fire up the whole kitchen instead.

I found perfection in that fleeting thought again that this is it. Roll the windows down, turn the music up, send a happy text message and enjoy that moment. Dig into the soil with both hands and sift through the cool damp earth as you put the roses where you want them and the lilac where it will be visible to everyone coming to visit. Let the sun warm your skin and relish the quiet of the woods. Consider a day at the beach while crossing off another day of work from the big list of how to move a whole household to the other end of the country again.

Breathe, Bridget.

I've had a little reprieve from Satan, who is away right now, a little relief that I didn't miss something I dearly wanted to see which will never happen now but that's a lot better than missing it while it takes place without me, and some incredibly tense moments with Ben recently. I've had to let some things go and stand my ground on others. I've had to roll with the punches and stand up and fight back.

Maybe it's all in a day's work. Maybe this is life. Maybe this is what Dalton calls the meat of your day, and we are all carnivores fighting over the same carcass. Maybe life is a cruel joke but I'm laughing. Maybe pigs fly and only Lochlan can see them because he's the crazy one. Maybe I'm not the worst flutterer in the bunch and maybe it does take a village to satisfy a Bridget.

You'll never know until you own one of course. Unfortunately there is only one and she isn't yours.

She belongs to them (points over to the table full of viking rock stars and laughs).

So don't touch, unless you are expressly invited. Stick around and you might be.

Not metal.

Drive out with the sun in your eyes
You wasted my time
It's true, it's true

My god, don't you hold out your hand
I called off my plans
I counted on you, on you

Got lost in the places I've been
I should go out with my friends
I'd go tonight but I know you'll be there too, there too

For me, this bottle of wine
Is to slow down my mind
And forget the things that I knew, I knew

And if you're ever left with any doubt
What you live with and what you'll do without
I'm only sorry that it took so long to figure out

I can totally picture Jacob singing songs by Band of Horses.

Not sure if that makes me very happy or really very sad.

So nice to see your face again
Tell me how long has it been
Since you've been here
(Since you've been here)
You look so different than before
You're still the person I adore
Frozen with fear
All out of love but I take it from the past
All out of words cause I'm sure it'll never last

I've been saving these last words for one last miracle
But now I'm not sure
I can't save you if you don't let me
You just get me like I've never been gotten before

Maybe it's a bitter wind
That chilled from the pacific rim
That brought you this way
(Brought you my way)
Do not make me think of him
The way he touched your fragile skin
That haunts me every day
I'm out of love but I can't forget the past
I'm out of words but I'm sure it'll never last

Rarely do I manage to be listening to music that holds the theme for my week. Usually they're completely unrelated but I bend them to my will. Usually my shortage of words results in an overabundance of emotions and actions that speak for me but this time we've hit the wall and god, did it ever hurt. Smashed into it face-first, lost a few teeth and came away with a bloodied nose and a bruised brow.

So if you need me I'll be in the corner nursing my wounds and my busted ego.

When I can't breathe, I make lists.

• Finding sea glass.
• watching the tide come in.
• cotton candy. Blue. Always blue.
• butterflies landing on the hood of my jacket.
• having a ring to twirl.
• chocolate chip cookie dough.
• sunset.
• lilacs and fresh cut grass.
• bubbles.
• the burn of saltwater on superficial wounds.
• Edward Gorey.
• music. Never turn it off or down.
• licking your fingers after ribs or corn on the cob.
• lobster and scallops, eaten with a silver fork, outdoors in the wind.
  
• new earrings.
• a book so good you can't put it down.
• rainstorms and sun showers.
• a light breeze.
  
• stacks of new fun mail.
• a hot cup of very good coffee.
• playing card games in wet bathing suits.
• Someone else making dinner.
  
• Holding a baby/helping the littles.
• A clean quilt on a freshly-made bed.
• driving down the highway with all the windows open.
• broken stained glass.
• a roaring fire on a cool night.
• frog songs.
• snoring dogs.
• sleepy men.
  
• bad pictures, taken in excitement.
• the audible cue of a key in the front door lock or roar of an approaching motorcycle/truck/boat.
• long uninvited hugs.
• peace.
• a deep breath.
• seedy carnivals.
  
• light tans.
• braids.
• a crossed-off list.
• I love you, said with a smile.
  

Stalemates. (Ha, NOT A PUN but should have been.)

I'm working up a sweat today. It's Monday, tomorrow will be four weeks since we moved in so I thought I would change all the beds, scrub all the bathrooms and generally scour the house once again from top to bottom. I think I bit off more than I can chew living here. It's a very very big house. Three times the size of the last one, I think. Add to that the five loads of laundry from skipping two days doing it and I've hardly had a moment. I'm upbeat, I'm busy and productive, I am healthy today. Or for now anyway.

Which is good, the boys are outside standing around in the rain arguing about exactly how much of a polyamoric, indulgent nightmare I have become and who is going to walk away from that first. I don't expect that they'll get anywhere and frankly, just to piss EVERYONE off I'm going to throw in here that an angry, passionate guy in soaking wet clothes is just about the best thing ever, and there's three of them out there.

Yes I said three.

Nevermind the ghosts, I don't think they count. Ghosts aren't affected by rain.

Morning glory.

I am the crisis
I am the bitter end
I'm gonna gun this down
I am divided
I am the razor edge
there is no easy now

The final birthday party was a smashing success and I'm done for a little bit. Until July, when Henry turns nine and we go to the fair and then have a cake and spaghetti fest here at home. That will be fun. Even with the wine. I had just enough wine for a light buzz and a complete eradication of any sort of anxiety or judgements leveled. Just enough wine to make sure everyone knew exactly what I think of their opinions and their feelings. Which is pure and total acceptance. It's a dance, you see, we have cards and it's very well-choreographed and the music never stops but thankfully it's only music I like so I feel at home. Music keeps Bridget's brain quiet, you see, and the strong arms that are always available keep the fluttering fingers to a minimum.

Everyone went home at a decent hour, and I cleaned up the kitchen while Ben tackled the rest of the house and then we emptied the time machine together, settled in to watch a movie with Lochlan and then went to bed late after spooking ourselves out with the total absolute stillness of the woods in front of the house, standing very still, listening to the creatures that were out there while we stood exposed in the light of the verandah, relative safety in the form of constructed dwellings versus the wild.

Snort.

Wine puts me out cold when I pass the buzz and work my way back to vaguely tired and dehydrated and so I was asleep in seconds after wondering who left the nightlight on in the big bathroom down the hall from our room. I woke up at five, pressed against the heat and covered in sweat and I turned onto my other side to press against the cold, dropping my body temperature back down to comfortable, pulling the quilts up over my shoulders, finding that perfect place for my head against Ben's chest and remaining there dozing hard until eight, when the dog pawed the bottom of the bed wanting his walk, and Bridget does the bright early morning walks while Ben does the scary dark night ones.

I climbed down to the bottom of the bed and found my clothes from the previous night and put them on, made a face, and the dog followed me all the way down to the front door where his leash hangs and we stepped out into a pretty nice day. Cool, and cloudy, quiet and still, save for the rolling of the gentle ocean waves under the fog.

Today the plans are for a day hike to another new waterfall and most likely a whole lot of fallout from the boys for writing about the things I do here because confirmations about certain aspects of my life within the collective are off limits, except after wine.

There is no wine today, however, and so the secrets once again go into my handbag to be carried around with my giant Toki Doki keyring and my blackberry. Have a good one.

The holy triad and I'm drunk.

Nice. They're sitting here making jokes about drunk princesses what she will do and I don't even care. I do care about good punctuation, however, so I'm making sure that I'm not spelling things wrong. What I don't care about also would be what people think of the fact that I sleepw ith who I want to. Whatever, fuck off. I'm not your problem. And aren't you lucky for that.

Not here for the ability to make good conversation.

I stood on the balcony this morning overlooking the grounds and the ocean beyond. The water was the most beautiful shade of teal black I have ever seen. The fog was tight and invasive and it was freezing but I stood there anyway and let the rain ruin me. My scarlet slip was glued to my skin, my hair was pressed to my scalp and stuck to my back and I shivered so hard I wondered if I would fall over but I didn't move. Not an inch. Not a deep breath. I just let it take me in and I fell asleep with my eyes open, dreaming of shipwrecks and sea monsters and hard lives carried out along the edge of the unforgiving waters.

Jesus Christ.

Oh, that's a Jacob-remark if ever there was one but it came from Lochlan and I rolled my eyes. He came out with a blanket and put it around my shoulders but I didn't reach for it and so it slid to the floor. I shook my head once and he didn't catch it. Don't interrupt me, I'm escaping right now and I don't want you here but instead he continued to gently berate me only I couldn't hear a word for the competing roar of the surf against the steady downpour of the rain. Drowning in his words. Too small to touch bottom, too paralyzed to do anything about it. I swallow all of the water until the lights go out and everything is black.

This is how I die.

They don't like that and Lochlan could read the words in my eyes because I'm a billboard, everything I think is always clearly visible, just without context or timestamps and so he panicked and took me by the shoulders, turning me away from the water, waiting for my eyes to focus from nothing to his strawberry curls and soft blue eyes. Again with the gentle smiles, the oh my God she is so fucked up why are we persisting in letting her have this independence when she doesn't even know enough to stay out of the rain? look that leaves me happy he is as unsure and anxious and uncomfortable as I am because misery loves company. She adores it and invites it to dance. She bathes in it and kisses it and sleeps with it and dreams about it.

I shook my head again. Blue lips. Wild thoughts. Behave, princess, or they'll take you away from this.

Sorry, what?

What in the hell are you doing?

Thinking.

Can't you think where it's warm?

No?

Bridget, stop it.

Stop what?

This.

If you don't love me, go away. This is what I do.

No, it isn't.

Then you tell me my profession.

You write.

Ha.

Oh fuck off.

I haven't written anything worth reading in forever.

You've been under stress.

A low grade, slow-moving stress. I should be able to outwrite it.

Not when everything is new.

Wait, you're not supposed to be on my side, Lochlan.

I'm not used to being the rescuer.

Just the ruiner.

What?

Nothing.

Is it safe to leave you alone?

Never.

Bridge-

I'm fine. Really. I'm going to have a shower and get dressed and make coffee. Seriously. I'm fine.

You sure?

Yes.

I love you.

I love you too.

Bridget?

What?

What were you really doing?

Just enjoying the view. I missed the water.

Okay, but stay warm and dry to do it. You're going to worry Ben.

Sorry.

It's okay. See you in a bit.

Fine.

He stood there for a few more minutes. Not an awkward silence, just staring openly. I know what I looked like because once he was gone and had closed the door behind him, I went straight into my bathroom to run a hot shower and I met my reflection in the mirror halfway into the room.

Oh.

Lord.

Wow.

I wasn't the only one enjoying the view.

Caleb was sitting in his car in the driveway, with a perfect line of sight to my balcony.

The Dying Tree.

They cover the grass out here, a carpet of dried ivory paper cut out to resemble oak and sometimes maple leaves. Faded from the sun and curled by rain they scatter and come to rest again, sometimes face up so that you can discern different words or phrases, still, if you are very lucky. Otherwise you are forced to decipher what is carved into the bark, descriptions so breathtaking you fall to your knees, sermons and thought transcribed with emotion so thick your eyes water and you make excuses for the lump in your throat, maybe a cough, perhaps just clearing it. It wouldn't be noted, everyone has the same reaction to Jacob's reading tree.

Only Jacob's tree is dying and I didn't expect to come to the clearing and find it exposed to the sun, bare branches with all of the words stripped away so brutally but so naturally too. Because that's what death is, just one more part of life, one more thing we find so different and so sudden. Surprising. Final.

If you need me, I've gone home to get a basket so I can collect all of his leaves. I don't want them to blow away. The wind off the water can be fierce.

Influence.

The earth is MOVING.

Henry comes home from school now and eats five cookies and then goes downstairs and pounds away on the drums for forty minutes every day.

He does not have a light touch. Granted, he is the tallest, heaviest eight-year-old I have ever met so maybe that was to be expected. It's pretty cool actually. He asked me last night if he could live at home for a while after college so he and his band can 'get off the ground without starving to death.'

Next week I'm expecting him to grow a beard sometime between recess and his 8:30 pm bedtime.

Cole would have been so proud, like we all are. My kids are awesome.

Princess crossing.

Another province, another driver's license, and this time my height clocks in at a staggering 1.6 metres.

Meters? I still haven't memorized the centimetres one from the last province. Or inches for that matter.

And for the record, they still got it wrong. Right across the country now. She ASKED me how tall I was and I told her and once again I think my shoes got factored in..oh well.

I'll take it. I didn't think they were going to give me any licence here for a moment or two. I got a little road safety quiz (which they didn't give to Ben, since I think they were just totally intimidated by him and decided to punish me, since before they would even put my changes through I was sent home for my marriage license.) and I completely blew one question, but they passed me anyway because it would be the right answer for everything east of here.

I left with my yellow temporary papers, so there. And I'm going to hold them up and wave them in the air and you might even see them this time! That's how tall I am now, folks.

Snow in summer.

Cerastium tomentosum.

Invasive flowers, gorgeous perennials in the form of tiny white flowers with frosted foliage, and every time I see them I stop and take a picture. I took the picture to the ladies at the garden nursery and followed them all the way to the back where I was introduced to some tiny little boxes full of dirt with yellowy-green bits of moss in them.

They've been cut back. No worries, they grow quickly.

Ironic. We move to the rainforest and I find the neatest flowering shrubs that remind me of the beach because there used to be a half-barrel by the steps just full of this stuff and it was always windblown and beautiful and to this day reminds me of weathered boards and eyelet lace, two requirements for Bridget's beach, along with that famous pale turquoise string bikini that I still have somewhere because it remains Jacob's Favorite Outfit.

He had these flowers, by the driveway just off the road, we just never knew they had a name. Pretty wildflowers. That was it.

Snow in Summer, they're called. Snort. What the fuck. I came here to get away from the snow and now I'm going to plant it all over the place! A carpet of white to cover the green. I don't care if it's invasive either until it chokes off the roses. I have more roses, by the way. These ones are a vintage pink, the shade of the Avon lipstick my mom wore in the early seventies, that coral-pink that looks good with a tan. The lilacs are lilac-colored, of course and really, Ben doesn't seem to mind if all the flowers are pink and purple and white. He chose a cherry tree (for more pink, I guess) and an orange tree (with actual oranges!) and some begonias because he said they remind him of me, and they're an ivory with pale pink inside. Oh please. That isn't what he meant. He said they were breathtakingly, so maybe I get it though they could still die because I'll be so slow to turn this ground but oh, I do love flowers so much and this is the perfect place for endless wild gardens made impossible by the wind.

There's your common thread.

The wind brings everything and then whips it away again. It breathes through my hair and causes you to turn back. It carries the seeds of these flowers and dreams of Jacob who is gone but who resorted to cut flowers because things that are forgotten can't grow, princess and so just enjoy these and let someone else worry about all of that. And Ben took me for so many long walks to see the ones down the street that I carried lilacs the day we got married, even though there was no church, no aisle and no formalities and everyone was horrified because they were ruined the moment they were cut, and dripped their strange little petals everywhere, in our drinks, in my hair, ground into the carpet and yet they are all I want to smell forever and ever because I don't want to smell the roses, I just want to see them. Because roses smell like funerals and Bridget doesn't like those, oh no. Not one little bit and that's sad but they've been ruined that way.

Perhaps someday someone will make me a hybrid of sorts, a rose-lilac combination that looks beautiful, like a rose, but smells of the lilacs. We can call it a Lilose or a Rilac. I don't really care. I just hope it all works out. I'll plant them everywhere, instead of all this snow.

Strange and usual.

Sunday afternoon saw me ducking through the dusty second levels of an antique store in Chinatown. Yes, I found many things and I didn't buy anything, but I know exactly where to go when I'm ready to buy an oversized, hand-carved armoire. I just need to figure out where to put it first. I had one of those What am I doing here? moments when I realized my phone was still muted from the night before and none of the boys knew where I was.

I'm just here, I thought. In a strange city, in a strange neighborhood, upstairs in a strange little cramped store full of red lanterns and golden candles. Surrounded by people who don't speak English and without a dollar in my handbag, just my mastercard and my silent Blackberry.

I returned downstairs swiftly, making my way to the front of the shop, to the street outside where I ran into Ben before I noticed I wasn't actually outside yet. He had followed me and was waiting patiently at the bottom of the stairs, because going up is for small people, and he is like a bull in a china shop in most of these places, a huge beast of a man trying to navigate aisles full of delicate imports piled floor to ceiling, with signs everywhere saying if you break it, you buy it.

Familiarity in a face I have studied for years and in it I see the mirrored expression of wonderment at how we ended up here where everything is strange and new and we have to adjust and change and bend and adapt, almost like a miniature geographical evolution in gentle surroundings, as change hopefully should be but isn't.

Usually it's quick and painful and dark and sudden, like a rollercoaster that dips into a tunnel before shooting out into the sunlight and you swear you'll never ever ever go on it again. Then someone forces you to ride it until you vomit into the grass behind the lineup and they admit they pushed you too hard.

Yes, usually it's like that.

Today we went up into the mountains again. We're trying to fit in tiny afternoons of exploring so we can get to know the area, get to know what there is to do and to find fun and a break from unpacking and putting things away and because we are used to embracing t-shirt weather because we spent too long on the prairies and we're used to having a few weeks only to be outdoors in the sun without seventeen layers of wool and thinsulate between our flesh and certain death.

Habitual, ridiculous.

That doesn't happen here but we were out anyway, in spite of the cool cloudy weather. I have a bit of color in my face. The children are turning brown. Ben even got a little pink to make him less pale and he won't be rocking his vampire completion into this summer and is going to have to plan for something different, perhaps rockstar farmer or tan-pire. I'm not sure which but it makes me laugh.

The boys have gold fever suddenly, a thirst for vacation and a yearning for a huge block of time off just to keep going, keep exploring what's around the next corner or the next bend in the road. Maybe it's a symptom of wanderlust or the hallmark of true nomadism. Maybe it's just to make the strange familiar now.

Maybe I'm crazy and nothing will ever be familiar again.

Maybe I'm just good at playing along and finding neat things in dark places.

Sunday morning and Bridget's brain is still asleep.

Moody boy has his baseball cap on pulled down low over his eyes. Glasses on to read. Band hoodie. Band t-shirt. Jeans from yesterday because he was up first to walk the pup because once Bridget finally went to bed with her sugar-fueled dreams, it was pitch-black-lights-out, didn't move until I heard Ben talking softly to the dog on his way out this morning.

Then he was walking quietly through the room in his bare feet to check me a half hour later. I could hear Henry crashing plates around making toast and watching cartoons and I figured I may as well get up since really, the laundry has to be caught up and I could use coffee and I wanted another wonderful doughnut before the boys manage to eat them all. Though Ben has good restraint. These doughnuts don't provoke the excitement they do for me, since once he was American.

A kiss on mouth brought me fully awake and so I pulled on my robe and ventured downstairs to life.

Okay, here I am. Now what?

A list, a dare and a half-assed plan, or, Days that End in Y.

I have Alice in Chains tickets. And Deftones. And Tool. And Mastodon. My musical bucket list is being crossed off so quickly I get paper cuts trying to hang on to the page while life flings me from one show to the next. Quick, hand me that pen so I can cross these bands off, oh, and this one, and these guys too, okay? Right there, third from the top.

I'm grateful for the pace, frankly. My list revolves around my ever-worsening hearing. I'm playing beat the clock against permanent silence which scares me more than you will ever now. In the meantime, I'm going to continue in my role as the world's greatest music fan. I can claim that, you know. If not, I'll simply go with world's cutest music fan.

That's what brings all these talented boys and their instruments to my neck of the woods anyway, I won't deny it.

Snort.

Not to say I won't travel to finish off my list. Wacken is coming up soon, is it not? I can see myself now, in a field somewhere in Germany in a sea of mosh.

Probably not a good idea, Lochlan says.

Whenever someone says that I have a tendency to go do it, just to be difficult. I mean, think about it, all the speed metal one princess can handle and a trip to Europe besides. See some old friends, make some new ones.

It gets no better than that.

Posted before and you probably missed it like I did. And I posted it.

I know. Progressive metal, alternative rock, blah blah blah, as long as the lyrics are poignant I don't care if it's music made blowing across the top of a bottle of soda. Granted I tend toward the heavier because it's mad and Bridget needs music that feels for her. But every now and then something out of left field just gets jammed in my head and I'm stuck on it for months. Remember REM? Right. Like that but not annoying.

This.

(this band has a Ben involved and also (formerly) a Chris and a Rob. Assume nothing. But beards! Assume beards, they have good beards. Snort.)

Notes for a long weekend.

Close your eyes, so many days go by
Easy to find what's wrong, harder to find what's right
I believe in you, I can show you that
I can see right through all your empty lies
I won't stay long in this world so wrong
Say goodbye, as we dance with the devil tonight
Don't you dare look at him in the eye
As we dance with the devil tonight

We had a family meeting last night and Ben is going to have the support he needs just like he always has. He calls his own shots, and we will back him no matter what they are. We're family, all of us and that means something you don't even need to understand.

He's sitting outside on the patio, watching the ocean, smoking cigarette after cigarette after cigarette. He's been out there since five-something this morning.

When I ask him if he wants to make a round-trip Krispy Kreme-fetching excursion on the weekend, he smiles briefly and nods once and then his eyes go back to the water.

I didn't expect him to drop first. I'm supposed to be the crazy one and yet I'm still running on adrenaline and I can't seem to get off this. I'm still doing everything, not a wobble, not an inability to leave the house or a attempt to give it to anything, I've found a way to keep choking the panic back and it seems to keep staying down. Not sure if that will fail or fade any time soon but for now we are still steamrolling along, Bridget having spread out her blanket, straight at all corners, and into the middle I have heaped my favorite books, toys and boys and I gathered it all up and I'm dragging it along like a six-year-old who has decided to run away from home, only this is home now and I still don't recognize anything save for my old pink camouflage converse all-stars, because they are sitting inside the back door because I wear them to walk the dog because that's all they are good for.

This blanket is heavy. Boys keep falling out of the folds in the blanket when I lose my vigilance and I'm wondering if I grew up a little or if, like Ben, I'm a ticking time bomb doomed to go off sooner or later.

It's so tiring going back to load them back in again. But I'm still doing it. If you ask me, I'll tell you I don't have a choice. But honestly?

I haven't checked in a while.

(if you are keeping score, Batman leads Satan by a huge margin. Huge. I'm sure Satan was considering going to the Russians for backing and I don't even want to think about that.)

Hiding keys and secret words.

I'm not making any more drama. Ben finally came down off his high horse to have an entire conversation with me with no one else present for once and I understand him a whole lot better when he isn't engulfed in the Jesus beams that shoot out of his guitar or marinated in the forgetful juice. Sometimes he can be so completely normal and charming it's difficult to remember why I'm angry with him in the first place.

Difficult but not impossible. He has work to do. Again, always.

It doesn't mean I'm not still entertaining counter-offers, if only for their amusement value, because no one likes amusement like the circus girl. I have been forwarding the emails from batman and Satan to each other, so they're well aware they are upbidding each other and they can continue to do so until they get bored and leave the game. At which point I'll do what I planned to do in the first place.

Nothing.

Except maybe have another ride on the back of someone's motorcycle. It takes the world away and replaces it with wind and speed and I like that. I like it a lot.

The bridge is always the best part of a song.

The next tattoo:

Every now and then I see you dreaming
Every now and then I see you cry
Every now and then I see you reaching
Reaching for the other side
What are you waiting for?

from Switchfoot's Hello Hurricane. That's my album. Mine.

Gravity is overrated.

I think it was Gore Vidal who said "It's not enough for me to win, you have to lose.

That's just stellar, isn't it? I would laugh but it's just so mean. Twenty bucks says Caleb has it engraved into his bathroom mirror, repeating it every day while he shaves. It wouldn't surprise me one bit.

He offered me the moon and I have forwarded it along for counter-offers. The moon is not something I would want, I'm much more partial to Pluto anyway. Highest bidder wins and I will strap on a big tank of oxygen, pull a mask down over my nose and mouth and breath in earth-air in my new outer space home. Someone will have to come and build me a closet for my dresses and put in a plug somewhere for my curling iron so I will be astro-cute and then from there I'll detonate this planet remotely and blow you all to kingdom come.

But aha! Please. I already took a bunch of the cutest earthlings, specifically the ones with beards and flannel shirts and carpentry skills and musician hands and I stuffed them into the backs of the rockets so they could tag along.

Because I don't want to ever be lonely.

A lie come true.

Fine, everything is just fine. Seriously. He'll be okay. Apparently people who know a lot more than I do are working behind the scenes and everything is perfectly normal and this is to be expected.

Well, thank you for clearing that up, once again.

Look. I'm not good at this. Hell, I'm not good at the whole 'wife' thing anyway. My track record is that by being a wife I managed to kill two other men, and now I seem to be hellbent on going for a hat trick. Apparently I kill via stress. Because like Lochlan always tells me, I'm impossible.

They just keep trying anyway. Most people would run screaming the other way. Ben will hold me out to the wolves with one hand and the other hand is wrapped around the neck of a bottle and every now and then he laughs and takes a long drink and staggers where he stands and then he drops the bottle to the ground and it smashes and he rakes his hand through his dark hair in frustration and shakes me, feet off the ground.

Why do you do this to me?

I close my eyes. If I go somewhere else, maybe to the roses with Jake, maybe to the empty tunnel to wait for Cole, I'll disappear and Ben won't see me. But then he won't see me, you see? And there is that small matter of the promise I made once upon a late winter night on a farm far removed from civilization in that place where the land is flat but the sky is forever. The promise was that even when he couldn't control things he ought to be able to, even when everything is broken and we can't get anything to go back or stay together that we would. Stay together.

No matter what.

I'll take my place in front of him while he rages. Fay Wray protection King Kong from those who want to parade him around for show, to live off his talents and his marketability and I'll keep them back as long as I can, and somewhere in the darkness of his mind he understands that I am on his side and maybe that's what the promise meant to him.

Only he wasn't supposed to just give up like this again. That's the part I don't really understand and so I'm just going to hold onto my promise while I hold onto him, and maybe it will be enough. I'll wrap my arms around his neck and press myself into his flannel shirt and hold on as tight as I can, standing in a pool of broken glass.

I'm not going to be the poster child for people who are married to people in recovery. I don't know a damned thing about it. I just give you the words I have in my heart and hope you don't misunderstand them too badly.

No filler.

It's a beautiful day, actually. A nice light breeze, sunshine, clear and seventeen, which is my favorite weather-you can wear a sweater or not, pinned around your shoulders and otherwise it's good for strappy blue-green embroidered dresses and pretty sage green ballet flats. They talked about thunderstorms earlier but you'll never get the kind you see in the prairies so I'm not concerned yet. I've been to the bank to change addresses and collect some spending cash and to the farmer's market for fresh fruit and some more tomatoes. I went for coffee with Duncan, Daniel and Joel and I've come home now to fold the mountain of laundry that's waiting for me and do a few things around the house before I run up the hill to get the children for the afternoon. They'll be pleased, I also picked up cheese and strawberries. They love those for afternoon snacks.

Ben is home, headphones on, writing, madly. He kind of looks like me when I am very wobbly in a different way and he kind of looks like he always has, save for the glass beside him, that isn't orange juice lately but whiskey and water because he wants to burn, because he wants to float and be creative and forget and just be without that weight that never truly lifts. This is the magic hour when he is quiet. God help the first one of you who breaks that today.

I might join him if I had that sort of personality that allows for letting go but I do not, I have to be forced, and lately there has been enough of that.

Going to go sit outside in the sun, as soon as my chores are finished.

I don't want your concern.

Dreams in color.

Talking to herself
there's no one else who needs to know
She tells herself
Memories back when she was bold and strong
And waiting for the world to come along
Swears she knew it, now she swears he's gone

She lies and says she's in love with him, can't find a better man
She dreams in color, she dreams in red, can't find a better man

I heard the lyrics to that song today. Actually heard-heard them since the stereo was loud enough and all of the windows on the main level were closed against the ceaseless rain.

And then I cried because I always assumed the song was one lauding the hero of her heart, not lamenting the lack of courage to leave someone. How horrible. I cried not because it's a sad subject but because I can no longer enjoy the song. What's the point? It's sad. I don't like sad things. Like myself.

Ben fell off the wagon and he fell hard and I'm not good at this and nothing works and it just breaks when I touch it. It breaks. Into a million little pieces and I can never find them all so the light shines through the holes, blinding everyone. That's sort of where we are now. Standing around in the aftermath with one hand raised to shield our eyes so we can see where we're going.

Except for Ben, Ben is sitting on the floor and I can't get him to move at all. Not even to play a song.

Oddly appreciative.

Today was punctuated by the early morning slug army and the discovery of the grove, spiced with wasps and bookended with a new-sticky-summer-tires drive up the mountain to a lake fed by a glacier and none of it was salted but it was bigger than Bridget's heart and so I could appreciate it and otherwise between the cardboard and the branches and the sand my hands are very sore tonight and I still can't manage a full deep breath which is cutting into my quality of life at this point and I realized how incredibly capable we are in spite of the fact that we never feel like we know what we're doing.

So there you go.

Goodnight. Hurts to type. Or maybe I just don't feel like reporting to the vultures sometimes. I like it here though. Even the scary remote parts and the expensive parts are adventure and learning what's essential versus blind foolishness and I like that I can pull over on the side of the road and for a five dollar bill and a smile come away with a jar of honey, a flat of strawberries and three pounds of green beans to snap, already salted by the ocean air.

That's strangely comforting.

The wire walker and the twenty-four-hour man.

The circus is in full swing again and we haven't had time to even restock the concessions or sweep out the smaller tents. One elephant is loose and Bridget's braids unraveled the better part of four hours ago. There's a tear in her costume and a smudge of dirt on her forehead but pay her no mind, she's just but one part of the big show and there is so much here to see tonight.

My tightrope is woven with disquietude now, my balancing pole cast in fear. This part of the act seems blindly simple and yet it's the hardest part of all. You don't know until you're up here. You don't know so don't presume, just hold your breath and try not to audibly gasp when I wobble. If enough of you make the same sound it might carry to my ears and then I'll become distracted and make a mistake and then it will be the biggest Tragedy On Earth. Ringling Brothers. Death becomes Us. The Circus of Ghosts and Best Laid Plans. Don't miss it. You'll be sorry if you did.

I used to get a lump in my throat when I saw the tents going up. I would scratch out the lines in the dust from the games we were playing and I would grab my stickers and my candy and walk right up to the tent and duck underneath before they had time to secure the pegs. Sticker on my leg, cotton candy on my breath, I would watch with admiration as Lochlan worked to fulfill his duties. Usually by the time the tent went up he was packing up the leftover signs to head off early to the next town to post the next round of roadside arrows and gritty signs pointing the way. He used to say it was no life. He would shake his head at me as I drew lines in the dirt and balanced all the way down, arms out gracefully, hair still stuck in my mouth if it wasn't stuck in my ponytail. Smiling professionally, because I would become the youngest, prettiest Jill ever to charm the farmers and the townspeople too.

Oh, just you wait, Lochie.

Bridge, this is no life for you.

There's more love under this tent than in the ten thousand homes in this town.

Says you. These people are rough. You're too young to run with this crowd.

You're here.

I'm only on for five towns, remember?

We could go from coast to coast, think about how much fun it would be!

Go home, Bridgie. Go play with your Barbies.

I'll show you.

Have Barbie Circus even. You could do that.

Cole would take me.

Cole doesn't work here.

He would if I asked.

Don't you dare, Bridget.

What do you care?

Cole can't bring you into this.

Then what's your worry?

That Caleb would instead.

Caleb? Why would he care?

He would do anything you asked.

He's twenty-one, he's much too old for the circus.

It's not the circus that would keep his interest, bee.

Gross. I'm thirteen.

It's true, though.

That's creepy.

Bridget, don't kid yourself.

Can we talk about something else then?

Sure, what?

What costume I'm going to wear when I walk the high wire.

No. Because you're going to go home now.

I'm never going to marry you, you know that?

Oh, and why not?

You're not fun. There's no dreaming with you. Only logic. You're boring.

I could be worse.

How?

I could be impossible, like you.

Yeah well, at least I know that when I grow up I'm going to live an exciting life. What are you going to do?

I don't know yet, but I hope it doesn't involve scraping you off the floor of the big top.

But would you if it did?

Of course I would. I love you, Bridgie, and I'll take the bag of your blood and guts and hair home to your mother and tell her you were very brave.

Good. Because someone will have to.

Yeah, somehow I don't see Cole sticking around for that part.

What about Caleb?

He would probably engineer your death just for the publicity.