A Joan of Arc (and smart enough to believe this).

Oh ominous place spellbound and unchildproofed
My least favourite chill to bear alone
Compatriots in place they'd cringe if I told you
Our best back-pocket secret our bond full-blown

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wonderment
I am a wunderkind, I am a pioneer naive enough to believe this
I am a princess on the way to my throne 

It's an easy round and even number, somehow comforting and frightening all at once. It is a dividing line, a highway down the centre of the route you thought you were taking until you turn around to look back and realize you've gone off on a tangent, found a detour and you're very near to where you meant to be but you're in a different place altogether at the same time.

(Where are you meant to be, Bridget?)

(We've got to get off the road.) 

I shrug and readjust my pack. Somehow over the years it got heavier and yet somehow, over the years, I figured out how to better carry it. 

I feel established and knowledgeable and experienced. I feel like a scared teenager in a bad situation, one who felt tough right up until he called her bluff. 

I feel like I should fight. 

I'm too tired to fight.

I feel as if today should consist of eating cake and watching good horror movies. Maybe an eight-hour sleep afterwards. In reality today will consist of laundry, more laundry, dishes, bathrooms, vaccuuming (still can't spell it, how old am I again? ) and figuring out dinner as everyone rolls in. Maybe a little horror movie time later. 

There are presents on the table in front of my chair. I was sent to bed at eight last night in order to facilitate a balloon throne, constructed on the spot and these beautifully wrapped presents piled around it which I have to wait twelve hours to open. I did not sleep. I read (chipping away at The Pandora Room. Love me some Ben Walker mysteries) and then I tossed and turned and got up at five and cried. 

Lochlan laughed and reminded me how I tried to comfort him when he turned this age and somehow in his mind I minimized his feelings and for that I'm sorry even though it's been five years since that happened. I didn't know that's what it feels like, saying it's just a number and the numbers don't matter.

He is right. 

It isn't but it doesn't matter either. 

Life is confusing. You want to be taken seriously. You want to be left alone. You want to throw glitter around indoors and dance to music that's so loud it's criminal and then you realize if you get glitter everywhere indoors you will still be finding it on the next perfectly-round, even birthday. 

So don't. 

But consider it. Because you can.

(Destined to reign, destined to roam.)

Find yourself a love who looks at you like Darren Hayes looked into the camera in the nineties.

I'm not watching Savage Garden videos. You are. 

I'm not enjoying the last day of my forties. No sirree. We already got groceries. I'm wearing my tiara. We have cupcakes for later and this is it, boys, there she goes. I'm not looking back. Not going to let it get me. Not going to entertain the ghosts for free when it costs me extra, not going to let fear rule when love does it so much better. Not going to put up with much more bullshit as every single man who walks into the room says something along the lines of not being able to believe that tomorrow is my birthday and it's a really big one. 

A huge one. 

One I can't wrap my brain around but the numbers don't care. They just keep marching like troops in nice solid blocks, in step, in cadence with each other and with the ticking of the clock. 

How do you feel? Lochlan asks, for the dozenth time.

I have no answer for him, yet. This is too new.

Taking a village.

When?

It's for October, possibly November. By then things should be returning to normal. 

We hope. 

We do. If it doesn't work this fall then we'll do it next spring, but I think you need a change of scenery. 

Stop trying to get rid of me. 

On the contrary, Br-

Always your position, isn't it? 

Since I'll be going I can't be getting rid of you, as you say. This would be a break for you. Just a short one.

We'll see. 

That's all I'm asking. 

The Devil is plotting and scheming that if all goes well and the world gets better he would like to show me the Taj Mahal as he went to see it six or eight years ago now and I almost perished from jealousy. I'm aware it's a Stonehenge/pyramids thing in which it looks pristine and singular and in reality it's surrounded by crowds and probably a raging, overhyped tourist trap but I will risk it. Some things you just need to see. 

Hey, if you're bored and looking to spend money you could save Louisbourg.

Speaking of overhyped tourist tr-

It isn't! It's magical there. 

It was dull. 

Sorry we can't all demand high-excitement entertainment, but just the thought that all of those French people just showed up to live and work at a tiny little village at the very tip of the cape, far from home sort of blows my mind. 

You mean like all of us moving here to the point?

And its magical, right?

It is, yes. 

Then it should be saved. 

I say that every single day, Neamhchiontach.

Like all dreamers.

Sunshine.

Bacon.

The mystery of formatting that leaves a space and half between each line. 

Labradorite.

Italian coffee.

Gerbera daisies.

Benevolent ghosts that only want what's best for you.

Clairaudience. Clairsentience. Madness. What's the difference?

Sudden amusement as Save A Prayer starts on the stereo. This is PJ's playlist and he plays it off as an old favourite just for Bridget. Ha. This was the very first song Lochlan and I ever slow-danced to, the entire way through, without stopping. In the camper with the little shitty radio tuned to C100 on a hot summer day in September. I was eleven. He was seventeen now and I asked him what a one-night stand really meant because it was in the song and he told me and I didn't understand what he meant. I couldn't understand how you would want to touch someone you didn't love and he said maybe you love them in that moment and I said that wasn't love and he pulled me close in again. 

Exactly.

Dismantled devices.

 The safest place was never in a fugue state, addled by this haloperidol-haze, nor is it standing behind the Devil, an oddly cold and stark space, all smooth concrete and solid grey walls, lit from somewhere I can't see, perfectly safe and sterile. It isn't at the edge of the cliff and it isn't at the bottom of the dark teal sea. It's certainly not in my mind, they never gave it back and now I fight for every fucking. single. letter that bounces along in slow motion into the space where my dark little twisted mind used to be before they threw it away. It's not necessary. No one, least of all me, needs the thing anymore so take it out, make some room. We're going to stack it up with new memories, or at the very least, nothing at all. 

I had so many song lyrics. Four decades worth of rare beloved tracks, a collection that belonged in the Smithsonian for its vastness and pure attention to detail. I don't know where it is now. Someday someone will come across it and it will make barely a ripple in the news but people who catalogue songs in their brain like I do will understand the value and the significance. 

Oh well. 

Another thing gone. Like Cole. Like Jacob. Like Bridget, who used to live in colour and now exists in monochrome. Monowail. Monodidactic. Monotheistic. Monophone, to be sure.

Almost wrote 'shure'. You see this fight? Can you watch it from there? Should have broadcast live but they don't like that so I don't. Instead I exist here in this safe place I began with and then quickly lost track of. 

Underneath Lochlan's chin. There's just enough room for me to stand here. To sleep here. To wait here and take shelter here. This is comfort, nostalgia and security all in one place. It's the perfect size for me. Throw in a bonus heartbeat and his arms and I want for nothing today, not even words. Not even plans or meetings or emergency triage or saltwater baptisms or chemical lobotomies or long breaks for sleep. 

Just this. 

All these broken souls
Each one more beautiful
They don't, they don't know my heart
They don't know my heart

I'll send out my soul
To worlds more beautiful
But they won't, they won't know my heart
It's the darkest part

Fists clenched under my chin against his chest I can drag the music back line by line but I don't have to see any ghosts. Like I said, it's perfect.

I am yours and yours alone
Forgive me for my wandering on my own

That's the only time I feel better, is when I dream and He's there. 

I have an electrolyte sucker in my hand and a warm cardigan over my far-too-light summer dress. My favourite brown Doc Martens. I'm holding the rope of the swing with one hand and Caleb frowns at my rings. Wearing the whole stack. Heart diamond, simple white gold band, Ben's skull ring (I stole it years ago) and my Claddagh. I can never bend this finger. The sucker is wild orange. It's kind of chemically-tasting and not sugary but it works great and is far better than the IV I had yesterday. My skin is so bruised from it. The younger Russian doctor came by, left a trunk full of pills and checked my vitals as I slept for three days under duress, drugged up the wazoo but also I didn't share before that, at some point late Saturday afternoon I went outside to fuck around in the garden and managed to faint, face-first in the dirt. 

That was not a popular move and they had already booked him to come see me yesterday and so the visit was appreciated. He drew some blood, which I'll have the results for tomorrow, but predicted I am anemic, dehydrated and exhausted. Everett's sheets are barely laundered and I never did get a chance to demonstrate exactly how awful things can get for me even though we got pretty darn close. 

How is your sucker? Caleb is trying to wear me down. More words. More pills. More doctors, a better plan than talking to ghosts after breakfast and the dirt by dinner. He's so desperate to cover this up and somehow redeem himself he doesn't even listen anymore. We've had this talk a million times. I have it with someone just about every week. Am I getting worse? No, I'm the same. Always the same.

It's okay. 

You get so rundown so fast. 

I shrug. A hundred pounds doesn't give one a lot of leeway to bounce back. 

Tell me what to do because what I want to do is find a way to keep you from reverting over and over again. 

You know why and you know what my prognosis is. 

So we find a different doctor.

We've already tried dozens. They all say the same thing, the romantic definition being that I am a hopeless case if every there was one. 

I wish I had never touched you. 

But you did and now this is what's left of her. I bite the sucker in half, put the stick in his hand as I jump off the swing and head back through the orchard to the house. The whole way back toward the moon and away from the sun his shadow towers over me. Fitting, in a way.

Out of order.

When I wake up Lochan and Ben are sitting on the floor beside the bed, covered in blood, feasting on my heart in order to get it away from me and keep it safe. If they consume it it means no one else will and I'm suddenly grateful and ashamed all at once. My brain has been thrown off the cliff, far out where it can't come back on the tide, electricity neutralized by the saltwater, bloating it up into a balloon, plucked out of the waves by a seagull, carried to a different coast, never to be seen again.

God these pills are great. What would be someone else's abject nightmares bring me so much peace. 

Not going to let him win, Lochlan says behind a mouthful of crimson pain. 

Ben shakes his head and continues to feast. He's blocking the door. I notice this almost like an afterthought, an intrusive thought that sees this mess from their perspective. Lochlan is comforted somehow, by the simple facts that Ben is there, that I am alert and fully aware that my brain is trying to sabotage me, that prolonged grief, exacerbated by trauma and PTSD is an easy, obvious but fairly recent diagnosis and a likely one just by virtue of what we already know and have seen. It's simply too much. I can't handle this and I've been struggling so hard for so long and sometimes I slip and I can't do it at all anymore and at the same time, here I am. Fighting to be brainless, heartless and whole like I've never fought before.

It's very very hard and I hate it. I hate what it does to Lochlan. I hate what it does to Ben. I hate what it does to Bridget, most of all. She had so much promise and now she's a pretty prisoner and this is the home they have put her in and she'll be lucky if she ever gets to leave the house alone or earn back shoelaces or be able to slice an apple or pick a song ever again.

And that's infuriating but I can do mad. I can't do my brain telling me to go get Jacob because that's where I belong. 

I don't belong there.

(Don't be stupid, Bridget.)

But my brain is so loud. Maybe being deaf is a psychological response (it isn't but oh how I wish it was and how grateful I am that my brain is muffled and easily drowned out).

I'm getting full. Get someone else. There's so much left. Lochlan protests. Red up to the elbows, blood in his hair. Blood on his teeth.

I can get Caleb, Ben says. Or Sam. 

Nevermind, I'll do it, Lochlan promises and continues on. It's my fault. We didn't get the help we needed at the beginning. It's my fault. I'm so sorry.

You were a child too. He's off the hook. He did his best and then some. He continues to fight long after everyone else has given up and left. 

It doesn't matter. I'm responsible for her.

We all are, Ben reminds him gently. You're not alone.

Lochlan's grief over me is going to be exactly the same. We should just get used to it, swimming in blood, tortured, ruined. Always a second from drowning in feelings. Always on high alert. 

Eat faster, I tell them suddenly and they look up in surprise.

You're awake! It's been days, Peanut. How do you feel?

Afraid.

We're fixing it now. Just hold on.

Don't need Jesus just need these pills but they're taking forever to kick in and I wish it was a little faster.

DON'T READ IT. 

I just need headphones and my bed, my green blanket that's warm and covers me perfectly and this rain. How fast can I type? How much should I share?

I got a pass on church podcast, breakfast, probably lunch and talking at all. Sam's been up to see if I want to talk, Lochlan got any words I did have. Ruth got a hug, and Henry too but they have plans and won't be home until late. Ben understands and didn't need words, Lochlan filled him in before he flipped the switch from thinking everything was fine to knowing it's not, and Caleb wondered if we should just cover in the holes and build over them, since we see where they are. 

Duncan blames himself, but he did everything right. I don't sleep enough and it sometimes means my guard is down and it triggers a hole that just opens up right in front of me and I step into it without hesitation (which means Caleb is wrong). 

And Jacob waits. 

Cole laughs at him. 

Caleb wishes he could revise this but I feel like myself today. Barely a white-knuckle grip on anything, slipping through the hours like a petal on the wind. Paper-thin and fragile, feelings like nerves stretching out, growing around everything, choking off life, blocking out the sun, fending off the rain, keeping the ghosts just out of reach. I guess it's better than letting them in but it feels like I am behind glass. What if it gets more frightening and Lochlan can't hear me from back here? What if I can never sleep again? What if Jesus has finally given up and Lochlan is right as he has been every single time thus far and what if this never changes? What if every goddamn feeling is here on my sleeve, burning my fingertips, causing the noise in my brain to reach a fever-pitch, crackly-static, roaring to the point where I might just throw myself off into the sea where it's quiet and still. 

Is this what Jacob felt like? 

Is this all there is? Is this what it means to become so overwhelmed that you can't speak in case you scream, to try and fade into the quilts so you somehow ride out a ride you don't even qualify for. You're too short, too small, not strong enough but then they shove you into it anyway, laughing, fastening the buckle all the while grinning at you blackly, and they tell you to have a good time.

Why doesn't anyone else feel this way? 

We do, sometimes, but we try to be strong for you. Lochlan assures me none of it's real, maybe it's not good but it will be okay. 

How do you know?

It has to be, Peanut. You just need sleep.

I didn't tell him I'm afraid to fall asleep to the sound of Cole's laughter but I don't think he can fix that. I wish someone would.

Like training an attack dog to ignore the meat.

Three in the morning and I'm doing laps around the house in pajamas and bare feet. Bedhead. I was asleep but now I am rapt, wide-awake and panicking in that quiet middle-of-the-night way when you know you just need to be talked out of it but everyone's asleep so you decide you will wear yourself out instead.

Besides, the house is a fishbowl. Lochlan changed the alarm code again so I can't get out without alerting him so he didn't wake up when I left, safe in the knowledge that I'm not throwing myself off the cliff or anything drastic. The very worst thing I can do here is...Duncan, who is now blocking the hallway and I almost screamed because he came out of nowhere. 

He didn't though. He heard footsteps and walked upstairs like a regular large man. I just didn't hear him because I am deaf and my blood pounding in my ears cloaked the vibrations from his steps besides. Batting zero here. I will die by intruder because I will never hear them coming. That or someone yelling DUCK as something fatal flies through the air toward me as I turn to them and say what?

Can't sleep? 

I shake my head, biting my lip. If I do that I won't cry by default. Frustration. Helplessness. 

I can fix this. 

How?

Trust me, Poem? 

I nod and no sooner does my head move slightly does he grab me up in his arms and walks back downstairs. Chucks me in his bed and laughs. 

I'll give you something to sleep about. He covers me with his body, wrapping his arms around me, rolling sideways so his weight isn't crushing me. His bed is a nest. Clean sheets that smell like vetiver and spruce. I exhale and he smoothes my bangs off my forehead. His hands are warm and I exhale. He plants a long kiss against my temple and then he tells Siri to text Lochlan and say she's here. Siri confirms and then he locks his arms and he is asleep. 

And I don't remember anything else until I opened my eyes at six. He was still asleep. Still holding me safe. Still breathing on my forehead. Standing in for his friend without taking advantage even though I gave it to him. I kiss his cheek and tug against his elbows and he releases me.

Go straight back to your room. No stopping. I was only there last night because I cockblocked PJ. 

Oh. It's not a disappointed Oh or a sad Oh, it's just a slightly surprised Oh. You didn't have to-

Last night I did. Sometimes you have to not push Lochlan so hard. He's had a long week as it is and he let you go anyway. That tells you how worn out he is. 

I nod and bite my lip again. 

Please stop doing that, Poem. That's how you get in shit in the first place.

Someone should have told me.

Oh my fucking God. The joy of growing up before the internet existed was that I have an idea of who sang what and a 'vision' from the play of what they look like (in costume) and then I continue on and forget to check and so just today I was scrolling through my favourite musicals because it's Friday and sometimes you have to have Broadway Fridays (blame Lochlan, he was humming something from Phantom of the Opera and I fell down a rabbit hole listening to All I ask of you and thought huhhhh her voice sounds just like Ellen from Miss Saigon. 

Well, my favourite Christine from Phantom is also my favourite Fantine from Les Miserables who also happens to play Ellen in the original cast recording (yes, my favourite) of Miss Saigon. All three are played masterfully by Claire Moore and it took me thirty whooping years to figure it out. 

If you need me I'll be in the library with my beloved vinyls because they are easier to manage than boys, hearts, ghosts and devils, that's for sure.

Permanent, water-soluble.

I got to do the completely messy and chaotic but much coveted monthly job of cleaning and refilling all of Caleb's fountain pens. I do my own at the same time. That's one of the few things we have in common, we both adore nice pens. Not too nice mind you, he keeps his mostly to the high three figures maximum price (okay there's a few over that) and my daily driver is literally a ten-dollar Chinese Lanbitou that is rose-gold coloured brass and weighs about three pounds. It's exhausting and I love it. It forces me to slow down and concentrate on my penmanship which is terrible at the best of times and I like to write every chance I get. It's rough because everything seems digital. Our shared Collective grocery list, delivery list and Google Calendar are all online but I maintain a traditional leatherbound planner that I love forever and ever. It's a calendar/to-do list/smashbook/doodle pad and reminder book all in one. It's full of paper clips, Oliclips, stickers, post-its and receipts. An old losing lottery ticket is a bookmark and it holds my leuchtterm planner for the year and then a moleskin as well. A5 because I need space. I have talked about it before. This year around Christmas I ordered a bespoke leather traveler's notebook system with all of the pockets and things I needed and it arrived in late January and it's so beautiful.

But anyway. I spread out on the kitchen island with a layer of newsprint underneath and a roll of paper towels and warm soapy water and fresh ink bottles and I took all of our pens apart and cleaned them and made sure they had working parts, that the nibs were smooth and the o-rings pliable and I soaked the grips and wiped down the barrels and the caps and I dried and refilled and tested all of them and everything is ready to go. It's a methodical, nitpicky thing that I enjoy doing and it keeps me busy for a couple of hours and it keeps my brain from seeing ghosts or flooding with too much anxiety at once and I'm always grateful for that, even if it seems like the most boring activity in the universe. 

It also serves as a visual reminder that yes I have enough pens, even though Caleb will spoil me rotten on a daily basis and keeps telling me to get some new ones if I'd like. 

I can only use one at a time. This is enough.

Measuring the joy of a moment against the depth of its history.

Jacob is surprised. I guess you can haunt someone and still be completely distracted, as always, failing to pick up the cues or catch the details as they go out into the world like fireflies in a field of wildflowers at night. 

And our baby's graduating next year? 

I nod. If I speak I will dissolve like ashes and blow off the end of the point, leaving the telescope covered in a light powdery film, and no one will ever know what happened to me. 

Jacob would have stayed if He had known Henry was his. Little Henry Jacob, here on the cusp of twenty years old, the enigma who looks and acts exactly like his late father right down to the ridiculous height and the deep voice. Even though now his official father is a passionate redhead who's angry at God for the rest of his life and bless his heart, only comes up to Henry's chin. 

And Ruth. Jesus, Bridge. You did such a good job with those two. 

I nod once more. Composure is the dust, coating everything for a thousand miles, I wish I could have kept it but there was no way to contain it. Until it turns to anger. 

I had so much help, since you didn't stick around. 

Maybe it's your anger that keeps us like this. 

GOOD. It's better than being sad. 

It's a Ferris wheel-

My favourite. 

I know, Peanut. I look up in surprise and Jacob is gone and Lochlan is there. 

He leaves when you show up-

I know, that's why I'm here. Maybe if I annoy the fuck out of him he'll go for good. 

What if I don't want that? Who do you think you are? 

He grabs my hand, pulling me up. I was your first love, and I'll be your last. And he'll never have anything close to what we have so the sooner he realizes that the sooner maybe he'll just leave so you can get on with the life you and I have rebuilt. 

Wait. 

He stops and steps in close, staring right into my eyes. Waiting and not saying a word.

Ask him to go for me, please. Just ask him to leave. 

Lochlan closes his eyes but he doesn't move. Doesn't jump at it. Doesn't take the only chance I've ever given him to fix this for good. 

I wait. 

When he opens his eyes they spill over almost immediately. His nose turns pink, eyes red. Hands shake, but just a little.

 I can't do that on your behalf, Peanut. You have to do it yourself. When you're ready.

*HEAD EXPLODES*

And with that I am the mother of a weeks-away-from-graduation (online? Or something) University graduate who is now finished classes forever, but also navigated the last year of her full-time studies while working full-time and holding a grand side-hustle too. Now Ruthie will get her bachelor degree in the next couple of weeks (?months?) and believe it or not Henry will follow in her footsteps, same program but a different major, and he's scheduled to finish in March of next year, having done an accelerated program that is headhunted also into a secure full-time career. Both kids have their drivers licenses and can take a vehicle out alone. Both kids save all of their money and don't spend foolishly. Both seem somehow leaps and bounds ahead of their peers in ambition and energy and I credit this house full of defacto parents for that. 

And I never have to make another tuition payment as long as I live. 

And Henry's classes are online so he's safe until Canada figures out these fucking vaccines. 

And I am the proudest mom alive right now, as ever, because I didn't finish university. And then Cole went and did on my dollar and time and then I got left in the dust and had to turn to other talents for money. 

At least I'm not shy. I learned that one quick. I'll thank Lochlan for the school of life diploma. I graduated with honours. 

Just like our daughter.

House-keeping.

I want to pinch the bridge of my nose and bemoan ever writing a word, some days, waking up to a dozen emails from people wondering why Christian felt the need to rat out Caleb's attitude and why Schuyler functions as the only actual adult around here sometimes. 

Schuyler asked Christian if he was heading over to the bonfire next door. They live in the same house. Every Sunday night weather-permitting we have a fire and sit around and talk. It's an open weekly invite. Everyone comes and goes. So a harmless question followed by a harmless response that no, because Caleb was acting like an asshole so Christian was going to skip it since he was hot (it was thirty degrees in the shade at this point) and tired and didn't feel like sparring or even dealing with anything tonight. Sometimes people get their feelings hurt. Lord knows we have enough of them around here.

Both people AND feelings, I mean.

So Schuyler came around to see if he and Daniel should run to the store for anything for the evening and Schuyler is a certified grownup, a peacemaker and also an alpha around here so he just made sure everything was good. They keep each other in check, my boys. If someone is acting out the others step in and help out and help fix it, help smooth things over and help protect anyone being marginalized or unduly targeted. There is no room for bullying here and we all know who the bullies are when they spool up so Schuyler just does a little crowd calming. August would have done it but he was making snacks and hadn't arrived yet. 

Does that help? Maybe I gloss over the wrong parts? I don't know. I just put down what I need to put down. Always assume the best, here, I guess is what I'm saying. We need to have people like Schuyler who can help keep a commune of this size running smoothly. We all work our butts off to keep it running smoothly but we're all also overly emotional, ridiculously immature and terribly passionate too. 

I would not have it either way. 

Schuyler also made me sit on the counter in the bathroom for fifteen minutes while he and Lochlan cleaned and bandaged my foot which again is funny only because I hate anyone touching my feet. Absolutely can't stand it. 

And first thing this morning a massive gift basket arrived from Ransom and Emmett and crew for the horrible oversight leading to injury and if I had to seek medical attention to let them know. They have liability insurance or something. It's really not that bad. It will heal eventually but I have to keep it clean and I never wear shoes. The bottoms of my feet are always black by lunchtime. 

Okay can we get back to business now? 

Schuyler-Jesus.

It's finished. The work is finished. They even had another group come in today and do the landscaping in order to not make me cry when I saw that it was all gone because it got trampled and trashed as not one but two complete glass houses were built. To his credit, Caleb had them do stamped concrete and concrete with inlays around stone benches and huge planters in order to have it all blend seamlessly with the outside for when we retract the roof but apparently it was not part of the original contract and only became an issue during the teardown of the original new structure which I hated, as it was claustrophobic, dark and terrible. 

This one is airy, light and very tall. Only one section retracts but that's just fine with me. 

Ben can swim in it starting May 1. Until then he will continue to accept Batman's hospitality and use his lap pool and that's fine too. 

I already stepped on a broken screw. I may have to have my leg removed but it's the same leg I sunburned gardening over the weekend so it's ruined anyway. Sam said it's karma for not listening to his podcast yet and Matt told him to hush about that. I only cried three times over the weekend and Christian wondered if we should actually reinstate Night & Seek after I foolishly brought it up but Caleb wearily reminded him that the only person who was ever any good at it was Cole and he obviously can't play since he is dead and so the rest of us would just hide forever and how much fun does that sound like? 

It was a rather cutting response to a fun idea and took the wind right out of our sails to the point where Schuyler came around just to make sure everyone was behaving as he heard from Chris that Caleb was being short and Schuyler doesn't believe that Caleb's attitude is always welcome or necessary. 

Schuyler kissed my forehead at one point and reminded me if I want I can come over there. 

I said I might and started another silent war as both Lochlan and Caleb glared briefly at Schuy but said nothing because Schuy does what he wants and no one will actually fuck with him. 

I'll take whatever I can get because at least Ransom is gone. I gave Emmett a tour via facetime and he only had one thing to point out and it's already fixed and we are good to go. Finally.

Duck.

But I just GOT here. I don't know where the best hiding places are. Also it's dark! What if I get lost? 

Out of politeness or maybe curiosity (I would later learn they just fold people into their pack as they come across them. It was only once I was part of it that they became selective, protective) the boys invited me to play Night & Seek. It's hide and seek but outside in the dark and when you're eight the only things more frightening are beets and spiders. 

Cole is It.

Come hide with me. Lochlan takes my hand, pulling me along with him. We run down the street into the woods at the dead end, heading up the path. Ten paces in he stops. 

Here, I'll piggyback you. We'll be faster that way. We're going all the way to the ball field. That's the boundary. 

I don't know if I'm allowed. 

It will take Cole about fifteen minutes to finish the game. No one will even know you're gone. He turns and gets down on one knee. Get on, quick! 

I throw my arms around his neck and my knees around his hips and he stands up, taking off in a flat run. I scream because he's so fast and he slows down, saying shhhhhhh. I press my face against the back of his shirt. He is thirteen-year-old sweaty summer chaos. His hair is in my eyes. It's springy and curly and long for a boy. I have never seen curls so big on a boy before. 

He tucks his hands behind my knees and we hide in the dugout. He remains vigilant, still holding me tight against his back even as we are both overheated and breathing heavily, trying to be quiet. 

Cole shouts in my ear  and I shriek in surprise as he yells GOT YOU. TWO FOR ONE. Loch, you've got a...a...barnacle! Somethings growing on your back! I think it's a girl!

Lochlan kneels back down and I step back, on solid ground again. My stomach churns wilfully. It feels weird. I want to be against him again. He is so nice. And so cute. 

That's a new one. Go and wait where we're hiding? That might be cheating.

It's not cheating. You're just mad you got caught. If you didn't decide to be Bridget's babysitter you would have won. 

He's not my babysitter! 

I didn't want her to get lost. 

Then you're her babysitter. 

Fuck you, man. 

No, fuck you. Wait, you sure you want to swear in front of the baby? 

I'm NOT a baby! 

If you can't play Night & Seek without a chaperone you're a baby, Bridget. Maybe you should find some grade three kids to play barbies with or something. 

Jesus, Cole, lighten up. She's fine. Caleb steps into the light from the outfield, striking a match and lights his cigarette. I take a step backwards out of the smoke. He notices and blows a ring directly at me. I am thoroughly impressed by his coolness, his seventeen-year-old independence. I step back and stick my hand through the ring and he blows another. I have forgotten what they're fighting about. All of the boys are back now as it ends when the first person is found.

Come on, Bridgie. I don't want to take you home smelling like smoke. 

Who says you have to take her home? I can take her, and since I'm an adult they won't think she was with you smoking. 

Lochlan's jaw clenches but he can't argue with the logic. He nods. Is that okay with you, Bridget? 

She's fine, Caleb growls. Lochlan is staring at me though. 

I nod. I don't want to get in trouble and I guess I might any other way.

Tomorrow I'll come get you and show you all the places that are good and what the boundaries are so you see them in daylight, okay? 

I nod. Promise?

Yeah sure. I'll come to your door at like nine. Be ready okay? 

Okay. I am excited suddenly. He's coming back and still wants to be my friend even as all the other boys think I'm a baby. 

Sweet dreams. He smiles and the others start chiming in and soon it's a chorus rising up into the night but I have already shifted gears. Caleb walks slowly so I can keep up and he lights another cigarette. 

You shouldn't smoke, you know. Did you see the commercial on television? It makes you breathe brown air. 

I'll give it up as soon as I find a better vice.

Like what? 

I have something in my sights. Probably won't be long.

More than I love life itself.

You know when you twist up the dial so loud you can feel it in your chest, and Elton John pontificates melodically about how this must be why they call it the blues, because it's one of your favourites, and you see Lochlan and Caleb out on the patio, and Caleb steps in, grabs the back of Lochlan's neck, and they're both nodding and finally Caleb gives just enough of a shake and waits, and slowly enough Lochlan raises his head to look into Caleb's eyes and nods again, this time with an understanding that is iron-clad. Then they have a long hug, and continue talking the whole time and the tension dissipates but you don't know why?

The music is so loud I have no idea what they said and no one else is around to ask?

Right. This is my life. All the time.

***

And? My eyebrows go up. Lochlan is sitting by the fire, hypnotized by the flames. They are orange with a hint of green. Magic fire. Always. 

Yes?

What did he say to you? 

I didn't think you were even home. 

You always know exactly where I am. 

Sadly, that's a lie, Peanut. I only tell myself I do. Makes it easier. 

What did he say, Locket?

You ask him?

I'm asking you. 

He only reminded me that he's put away all his weapons. His guns. His walls. His teeth. His threats and his power and he comes to us, he said us specifically, isn't that great, empty-handed and only willing to keep you above ground. He said that too, so many fucked up choices of words going on in that one conversation. He told me he loves me. And that if I say the word he'll step back again like I have control. He's practically a hostage negotiator. I didn't even know what the fuck I was supposed to say to any of that but sometimes this is fucking hard, you know? Like he knows how to play me. It's so fucking hard sometimes.

Then come with me. 

I can't do that, Peanut. 

You did for a while. 

Too hard to see that. It's worse than what I picture. 

Then he steps back. We'll give him up.

Like you said yester-

Who cares what I said? 

It never works and then you're back. I'd rather have you complacent and routine with him then always indulging in reunions. 

I swallow whatever I was going to say next. He's right. 

I love you, Bridgie. Always have, always will. I just wish I was the only one who did. Would have made my life so much easier. 

I'm sorry, Locket. 

Don't be sorry, just say it's not forever and eventually when you're stronger maybe you'll only need me.

Gentle true spirit.

Helplessly Hoping comes through the stereo as Lochlan grabs my hands, pulling me away from the dishes for a dance around the kitchen. The light is on over the sink and the fixture over the long table but otherwise the kitchen has darkened, but here the sun persists, pulling little Pluto into his orbit for a spin, a reconnection to make sure they are on the same orbit. 

Look, it's my theme song. 

You're not helpless. 

He makes the briefest doubtful face and I know I was wrong. About more than just that snap observation. 

I'm fine. 

Are you though? This goes beyond physical, Peanut. That's why Everett was here. You see Jake and you go running off to Caleb for comfort. 

Not comfort-

Then WHAT IS IT? He shouts suddenly. I startle and step back. The collateral damage from Jacob is not going to be Lochlan, in the end, even as he wonders if it is.

Jake won't come around if Caleb-

Is there? Are you fucking kidding me? He's shouting again. This IS fucking crazy. 

I close my eyes. I don't want to be here right now if he's going to dismiss me as insane. Unfixable. Ruined. He did that already, once before. That was Caleb's doing too but this time the evil protects me from the good, which is somehow more frightening that I ever expected it would be. 

You said-

I KNOW WHAT I SAID. The problem here is living with it. I made a promise and I didn't know it would be so hard to keep. 

I'm sorry. 

That's the hardest part. It's better for you if he's in the picture. Things work better. It's just so hard to watch. My heart rips out every time and it comes back smaller and smaller. 

How do we make it big again? Panic is rising. 

We stay right here. He puts his head against mine. We don't get further apart than this. 

That isn't rational. We've tried. 

Maybe we should try harder. 

I nod into his shoulder. Maybe we are hopeless. I'm not sure he can try harder than he already does, every single day of his life. Looks like he has a monster too. It's me.

The Devil in the (waning) daylight.

He reached into the glass, taking out an ice cube between two fingers, leaving the glass on the table beside us. He pulls me into his lap. I'm dressed in his unbuttoned shirt and tie with a poorly-tied single Windsor knot at this point, nothing else. He is still in suit pants. Belt. Bare feet. Nothing else. He gathers me in close in one arm, pulling the ice cube up to my lips, running it across my bottom lip and down over my chin. I lean my head back and close my eyes as I feel the cold ice melting, running in rivers down my chest, soaking his shirt, pooling in my belly button, sending shivers up my back. 

He gives me the cube and I press it against his mouth but don't let him keep it, returning the favour, running it down his throat, over his Adam's apple and down the line to his belt and then I lose my grip and it falls. He kicks it out of the way and it skids across the wooden floor as he stands up, picking me up in the process. My legs are wrapped around his hips. No effort. One arm looped lazily around his neck and he bends forward, and staggers against the doorframe, catching us against it with his free arm and then I get my kiss. Oh God. Don't keep me up here please please please and somehow he hears me and keeps going. 

He drops us both down into his bed. I look toward the window. So bright still. The sun persists, fighting the moon for glory the same exact way he fights everyone else for time. He removes his tie from my neck, considers throwing it somewhere and then smiles in that old familiar way. I am turned over roughly, hands pulled behind my back, held down while he loops the tie around my wrist, tying it tightly but not too tightly.

In front, please. If it's in back and you turn me over I can't put weight on my arm-

Shit. A pause in his plans and he unties me quickly, gingerly turning me back to face him. I hold my hands up together. Willing, but cautious. He frowns and then pauses, bending down for another kiss. 

Trust me, he says, as if I don't. The tie covers my eyes, tied around the back of my head. I put my fingers up to lift it and he pulls my hands away. 

Trust me, he repeats, as if I do. 

Then he leaves. I hear him taking off the rest of his things. Then I feel him wrap his fingers around my ankles and he violently yanks me down. I yell out in surprise and then I feel his breath against my knees. I reach for his head and try and push him away but he holds my hands down, against the sheets. When he tastes me I lose my mind, twisting up towards him, turning myself inside out, fighting to be set free so I can fully enjoy this but he keeps me pinned, the girl in the Riker frame. The same way they all do because otherwise I would fly away. 

I am worked into a frenzy and I let out a shuddering cry. He finally gives me a break, letting go of my hands. I am now slick with sweat, cathartic tears leaking from of the corners of my eyes, sliding into my hair as I lie there. He is up over me now. He doesn't turn me away, doesn't pull me up, doesn't try and impale me against the wall, instead he works gently but remains harsh at the same time, finding a rhythm within me, pulling my knees up, pulling my arms around his neck once again, pressing his head down against the top of mine. 

He rises higher and higher until we are no longer embracing and he is sitting up on his knees, pulling me up into his hips, focused and driving before he roughly leans back down, rips off my blindfold and we both come together, foreheads pressed together, breathing heavily, staring into each other's eyes. I wonder if I will burst into flames and then Caleb kisses me again and lies down beside me, one hand wrapped around my thigh. 

Ownership. It's a myth and the spell is broken and the sun sets, losing to the moon on this night, as it has on every single night of my life.

Short. Lived (Hold every memory as you go).

Walked outside and went to go down and turn the telescope back towards the sea where we turned it to look at the birds nest in the tree behind the garage and the space was already occupied. 

He's back. Blue poplin shirttails flapping gently in the wind, hair long and ruffled. I turn to save myself the unbearable pain and his voice in my mind stops me.

Princess. Please.

Aw fuck. I turn back toward the ocean, step forward and drop into the rabbit hole. They just keep popping up everywhere. No sooner can I find a shovel and fill the holes with memories high enough that you walk on them without tripping then the memories get packed down, folded neatly, flattened lower and lower to make room for more and then I'm falling again.

He reaches down and lifts me back out, only we're down beyond the telescope now right by the endless fence. The one I can't see over. The one designed to keep me from following him wherever he goes.

I look up at him and he smiles. My heart cracks and throbs miserably and he frowns suddenly at something behind me. I look back and Lochlan is headed toward me at his usual clickingly rapid gait. 

Peanut. Wait. 

Hmmm?

He reaches me. Tell me something. 

Uh ummmmm did you know that by the age of forty, fifty percent of men have trouble maintaining an erection-

Tell me where he is. 

I turn away toward Jake but he is gone. I turn back. 

Heaven? 

Is he here? Are you following rabbits again?

If I said yes would you be mad? I whisper it to the wind. 

No. I would just be sad. 

Then no. No rabbits. No Jake. I thought he would be here in heaven but I don't see him anywhere. 

6:30am to 8:00pm (barometer but more of a general one).

You made it, Poem. Another winter. 

It was my Golden Jubilee of winters, Poet. 

He bursts out laughing. Was it now? 

Perhaps. I am noncommital. I steal a piece of honeydew from the bowl of fruit he has in one hand. 

Sleep?

No. You? 

Yeah. All the fresh air yesterday. 

We organized the backyard in preparation for a work week this coming weekend, where we can rehang one of the gates, after the concrete is set (thanks again guys for using real concrete), deploy the three cubic yards of soil into the gardens and then the only thing after that is planting/weeding/mowing/watering for the rest of the summer. This is the big job but it's not too hard and then if I help I too, will sleep well, if only for a night or two. Patio cushions are out on the chairs under the glass-topped pergola and my plant pots are beginning to make appearances as I line them up for planting. I have a whole heaping pile of rosemary rooting right now on every window sill in the kitchen and great room and I'm going to make a fence of them along one side of the property. No one believes me but I only need a two or three year commitment to the case and they will be surprised. 

In any case, we've definitely tipped the balance now and it's spring/almost summer. I see the end of the construction-yardwork in sight before something else begins. And over the weekend we got new stools for the island. Plain wood. Simple and sturdy, getting rid of the weird articulating black padded leather scoop seats that hurt unless you sat on them just right and always seemed too low or two high. Besides, two of them were broken anyway. Last week I got new white semi-sheer curtains for the living room and great room and we did away with the heavy cast-iron childproof fireplace screen in the living room and put in an antique decorative enamel one that can be simply folded to the side if we have a fire in there. 

So nice. Small changes, huge effect. And when the pool enclosure is finished we'll truly have the outside in here even though it is not connected to any other buildings. The little pool house where I keep towels and floating things and chemicals is outside of it. The sauna and the outdoor kitchen are now connected though, by a series of interconnected brick paths that tie in with the driveway and ahhhhhhhhhh. It's looking good.

They really are down to just finishing bits and bobs. Trims and cleaning up. I feel hopeful, this morning. 

You look happy, Duncan says suddenly. You're smiling. On a Monday. That's new.

You keep me believing.

Doing White Dress but in a contralto this morning, semi-talking, squealing here and there, working on control. 

As if. 

Ever.

I hit the button on the keurig this morning and walked away. Came back to coffee all over the place because I forgot to put my mug underneath it and had to spend fifteen minutes scrubbing and now I'm sad that my ego rose up a little yesterday and this morning my heart snapped back. Never get too invested in the smallest successes, it said. Remember who you are, it chided, gently. Some days my  heart is my singular refuge. Some days it is enemy number one. 

And no, it's not my brain talking.You only wish you could hear what's going on in there. It's a whole separate monologue that never shuts off but some times I can tune it right out. Sometimes the volume knob gets bumped and it just turns into a feedback whine. Sometimes it's pink noise. 

And sometimes I chuck it all out and replace it with a piano or headphones and someone else's words. 

I was so proud. I cleaned and refilled and rehung all of the bird feeders. We only put them out in daylight, here. The first hummingbird of our season came by yesterday to say hi but his feed was stale and so he didn't stay, even as I promised to fix it. We had the work-guys come on a rare Saturday to do some things we wanted done and Ransom wouldn't let us touch. We lifted Henry's spirits and played with the dog a lot. 

It was sunny. 

After dinner I cut down my paintbrushes and sanded them round again. I don't have any use for brushes that are two feet long. I bump into them as I paint. I knock them over. It's not as if they are balanced or I need the length to reach or I like long graceful instruments. I just want things that fit me. So I was feeling pretty proud when Lochlan came out to the studio. I've been saying I was going to do it for years and years. So many stabby bruises. So many knocked-into palettes and spilled cups of brushes. Fuck it. I'm fixing all the things before the second act. It's going to be great. 

***

Sam says I should be singing Tulsa Jesus Freak today. All my sensitive boys love Lana and have actually been listening, while I get distracted and then just end up defaulting to Tool or Demon Hunter half the time anyway. 

I let him preach directly to me this morning over my second, successful coffee this time. He loves the audience I give him. If it's engaging I am rapt. If it's not I am absent. Then he'll tweak his words for effect from the feedback. I point out an audience of one with a specific fetish for bottomless emotion could possibly be the worst audience and instead he should be kissing the hand that feeds him. He just stared at me in his patient, peaceful way and said he planned to live an authentic life and he's not looking back. 

What an inspiration.

One more week, Geoff Crayon.

True to form the pool enclosure isn't finished and needs until next Saturday afternoon. Concrete is fun. Concrete is life. The glass is lovely though. The vision comes together and Ransom told me at least it's cold as hell right now so it's not like I'm losing a week of pool use or anything. He has no use for my first world problems. If I need to swim I can go to Batman's. If I need to swim in a big space I can buy a resort in Mexico. 

Firstly, I remind you I was poor once. So poor I skipped meals and watched my children eat theirs so this is fairly recent, truth be told. Also Batman will just stare so that's not an option. Thirdly I don't do Mexico. Maybe the Maldives. Maybe the Canaries or Fiji but never Mexico. 

Fourthly, hell isn't cold. That's a myth. 

***

Now off to try to enjoy the weekend. I'd like to watch a horror movie and eat some cake.See if any of that happens. We don't have cake and I don't feel like baking. I feel like playing Rip Van Winkle. Or Ezra. Or Oisin. Or something where the protagonist (clearly me. The plot has changed! I was once the heroine!) wakes up from a long gap in history and everything is different and they continue on. I always thought it was a Roald Dahl story (off by two hundred years!) and am always surprised when reminded it is by Irving, the same man who wrote my beloved The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

I'll pour one out later for the Duke.

I am not getting out of bed. Prince Philip died. The Queen is a widow now too. And Ransom has precisely twelve hours left to finish the work with his team. Not sure if he's going to do it. He and I had a lovely professional exchange by text last night. He is assured that there are no problems. I over-anticipate and fret every last possibility. It's my specialty.

BEST NEWS EVER.

 I know Canada is a laughing stock with our inability to vaccinate, the whole seventh-wave fun of living in BC or whatever the hell it is that we're doing here but I'll have you know Ticketmaster just sent me the rescheduled dates for the Roger Waters concert that was supposed to take place last fall and I am SO EXCITED. It's eighteen months away but WHO CARES? We have plans!!!!! Also that means pub dinner because we always grab food on the way to a show. It's tradition. It's been a long fucking pandemic. I am THRILLED TO SEE THIS. I GET TO DRESS UP AND GO OUT. 

WHAT THE FUCK. 

*cries*

Had you in my coat pocket.

 Sippin' on straight chlorine, let the vibe slide over me

This beat is a chemical, beat is a chemical
When I leave don't save my seat, I'll be back when it's all complete
The moment is medical, moment is medical
Sippin' on straight chlorine

 

The best part of singing this with the piano is that Lochlan will burst in and do a wonderful theatrical first bridge for me, and then supply the harmony on the final verse. It's just magical. There's an acoustic version you can hit up to get the idea here, though the original is orchard-danceable in a way I didn't notice until today.

(Everyone likes the music I bring so I share the links when I remember to. The soundtrack for the movie of my life now stands at fourteen thousand hours or something. Anyway Twenty One pilots dropped a new single yesterday and the new album comes in May. Ruthie is losing it. She's seen them twice and can't get enough and sent me an ALL CAPS message yesterday from work after the band's email went out. I could hear the squeals from here.)

Lochlan is trying to distract me from now camping the pool build from the side window of our room. I can hardly see a thing from there except for the one corner but it was enough until I got caught. 

Want to go for a walk?

Sure I tell him. I leave the keys and grab my airpods (BEST. INVENTION. EVER) and the song barely misses a beat.

I will be free.

 Prisoned am I to this shell of the dust

It speaks of only fiction that I could never trust
Captured alive in this sinful estate
Vexed am I to see I do the things that I hate
Rip out the framework leave no stone unturned
Until my heart forgets all that my flesh ever learned
Tear down the structure till nothing is left
God deliver me from this body of death

I can play most instruments enough to be passable. Except guitar, honestly. That one is tough. Bass is more my thing. I can drum but if I think about it too much I lose my rhythm. French horn, trumpet, saxophone? Check. Bagpipes? Yes. Accordion? Easy. Uilleann pipes, of course. Violin, Piano, very well thank you. 

And yet all I want to do is sing. 

This morning I took the good monitors out into the rain and the cliff so I could belt it out over the sea. Lowly is this morning's efforts. Wolves at the Gate. We're coming back around here. First is the main vocal track and then I layer in minor harmony. Three of those in different keys and then the background screaming harmony. 

Well, I can't do it in the house. The studio is ninety-eight percent soundproof but if I'm going to practice my growls I can't have an audience and half the time I zone out on the guitar scale and forget I am supposed to be providing the words. Besides, Ben woke up with another headache and so I'm not going to bother him. Instead he is sleeping late to try and shake the pain this morning while I wear mine as a badge of foolishness and bravery in the face of nothing more than my own tiny shadow.

Oh Blessed man that I am Lowly man who can save such a wretch that I am?

I feel like it all just makes it rain harder. 

Love it.

I can't tell you about the ghosts if I don't write about them.

I am not in charge of the pool project any longer and Caleb uncharacteristically told me to watch myself which was interesting but later I found out that he wants me to keep the upper hand and be professional. I'm not worried. The work has to be inspected to pass usage and Ransom will be well-paid so why wouldn't he do the best job he can? This will be an absolute showpiece for his portfolio. Again. Like the last few projects he did for us. 

(I remain fully unapologetic about the punch though.)

In better news, the entire point (Batman's house included because our motto is Leave no one behind or something like that) is registered to be vaccinated. Those of us who are young enough to not have had any shots yet, I mean. 

I feel excited, finally. This is just registration. We'll get emails when they are ready for our age groups to make appointments to get the actual needle but this feels like progress to me and even though I bought completely unnecessary toilet paper today expecting a more stringent health order, I feel like the end is in sight at last. 

Played the spoons to Civilian after dinner. Sang harmony. Sewed a pair of shorts and half a dozen new masks. Helped Ruth with a project and kept her company while she ran errands. Sat outside on the swing and listened to French radio. Made dinner. Watched a Youtube video with PJ in which someone broke their windshield with a loud subwoofer. Did the laundry. Walked the dog. Threw a punch. 

The usual. 

It's going to be a long week.

Happy Easter.

What a beautiful day. The last load of laundry is finally in the dryer, REO Speedwagon is in my headphones, and the coffee flows like a hot river of blood straight into my soul, melting anyone it comes across with an unforgiving roast that is so good. 

I've been told my version of a 'lazy Sunday' isn't like everyone else's. I get up exceedingly late (seven or eight to be exact), do a bunch of chores (all of them) and then sit with my coffee and PJ's knucklebone fidget thing.

(I AM LEARNING IT, LEAVE ME ALONE. One of my dreams is to pay enough attention to flip a coin across my knuckles and back. Both hands. PJ can do a coin now but he said it's easier to start with the bone. 

I did not snort laugh to myself when he said this but I did look him dead in the eye and told him that it's a good thing I can handle a bone already. 

He did not laugh. He may have whimpered slightly but we both ignored it. 

Then he said if I wake him up to listen to Sam tell his goofy bunny stories he would also commit murder this Easter and there would be no resurrections. 

Wow. Crabby boy. But now I have this torch-fired blue-coppery steel knobby thing that looks more like a sex toy than a fidget spinner and I've dropped it on the hardwood floor so many times Lochlan sent me a text and asked why I was FUCKING BOWLING AT 8 IN THE MORNING JEEEEEEEEEEEEESUSS.

So I put it in my pocket, which means tomorrow it will probably go through the wash.)

We're having hot turkey sandwiches tonight, at Henry's request, with gravy and stuffing. He hates plain turkey sliced breast and adores gravy-soaked bread and that's honestly somehow easier and then we get right to the good part of rare leftovers without having to wait a day. The boys are going to set up the long table in the orchard later this morning and we'll have dinner and watch the sunset as a family.

Otherwise I think I will listen to Sam's goofy bunny stories once he puts up his Easter podcast.

(You want to see someone go from thirty to zero in one blink you should have seen Sam's face when the government slammed the door closed on everything last week after just letting him fire up again. It was a Looney-Tunes comical shift but it broke all of our hearts because Sam loves to preach and he loves to touch people and hug people and look them in the eyes as he listens so well it's just beyond and we assured him we all needed him so much he do concentrated reverending and we would soak him up gratefully and he has not disappointed. At all.)

But I've already had my sermon for the day. Got it at four this morning. I didn't realize how much I missed Sam in our dark little universe upstairs until he brought the light into it and blew up my crushed spirit again like a mylar balloon.

And if I see a sign in the sky tonight (See it coming)
No one's gonna tell me it's a trick of the light (Feel it coming)
May never come but I'm willing to wait
What can I say? I'm a man of the faith
And there's an ocean in my body
And there's a river in my soul
And I'm crying

 

Early coffee alone in the kitchen today. Airpods are cemented directly to my skull now. My homemade playlist (I don't use Sp*tify) flows from The Villagers Trick of the Light right into Veruca Salt's Loneliness is Worse and it's the absolute best combination because today iTunes has chosen alphabetical order for my songs. Sometimes it goes by most played or least played, sometimes by length or year. I never know but I love it. 

 

I already took lilac and rosemary cuttings. The laundry is almost done. I fixed the toilet and I put the dog out. I woke up Ruth for work and Lochlan for errands, shortly here, and Ben snoozes on and on. We measured a whole big part of the yard last night and replanted a host of perennials for a potential new fence and then I decided I would just do a raised bed and plant a bunch of forgiving things in it and that would be nicer than anything else and since my tiny rosemary sprig that I bought for ninety-nine cents on a whim six years ago is now a huge shrub the size of me and I cut and harvest and dry and give away huge bunches and one year I made WREATHS from it and it just keeps coming, well, it smells so good I may as well just plant it everywhere.

That one trick.

He's standing over me while I load in another sheet of thick, fibrous paper. The ribbon is cued up perfectly. Red on the bottom, black on top. The carrier tension feeds the ribbon across the centre and the letter keys strike the paper causing meaning, getting it out. One after another. Staccato literary gunshots and I am dead, my red blood colouring the ink for the next story, if not the next life. 

I begin to make a list. If I ignore him and begin to count he fades, dissolving in the crush of the things my brain chooses to surround him with, burying him alive. Drowning him out. 

I can't hit the keys with my left index finger though. I've bled through all the bandages. I need a stitch or two, maybe a break. Maybe a transcriptionist, like Violet Evergarden, someone to wish for the ghosts of the past instead of the breathing, living men of the present. An auto memory doll able to craft a better letter than I could if only for the right training. Since that won't happen I will persevere, forgetting about my injury and letting my finger push and bloom against the keys until the entire ribbon is blood red instead of just the lower edge and as I pick up speed the paper begins to spread scarlet from white. Day to night. A pool, no, a lake of me.

Princess-

Be quiet and let me think, I order him.

You know damn well every second day I'll look up and be like OMG GUYS LOOK AN OWL!

Ransom is finally good for something besides managing projects. 

This morning I made him a coffee and then heard the familiar noise. The water heater, no matter what I do, and the fact that it's newish makes noises randomly and you can hear it all over the house. It's a perfect storm of someone showering while someone else is flushing or something but it will start up and sporadically go for a few minutes and running the hot tap in the master bathtub seems to clear it. 

I made a comment that I needed to go fix that and he offered to put a decoy owl up on the roof for me. 

It is April Fools Day after all. I'm sorry? What will an owl do? 

It will make the Flicker think this territory is already occupied so he'll find somewhere else to drum. 

And then it dawned on me. The Northern Flicker birds I feed, and watch drum on other people's vent stacks every time we go for a walk or run are doing the same things here and my mysterious water heater issues that ONLY happen in spring and only for a few minutes and half a dozen plumbers have checked the heater and can't find any problems with it are just birds looking for mates. 

(And when I filmed the noise aiming the camera directly at the water tank, of course it was loud. That's where the vent stack terminates. Oh my God.)

Huh. 

Decade-old mystery solved right there.

Rare form.

Neamchiontach-

DON'T.

I am drunk* because I tried some of the new mead and I already took a Benadryl because everything is spring-blooming and my allergies are so awful. My eyes are itchy, throat dry and my nose so blocked it's like the Suez Canal was earlier this week. I am half-expecting him to threaten me for spending time with TJ (Dalt) but Caleb is weary still from his whirlwind trip (and boy am I glad he got back before this new lockdown) and weary from life and from me and just finds it almost comical today.

Lochlan must have a hell of a time keeping you organized. 

He does. 

I almost feel sorry for him. 

You don't have to. He gets all the love.

Not Monday he didn't. 

Says who now? 

Bridget. 

You're mad now aren't you. 

I mean, I was here. 

You're tired. You're really old, after all. 

Wow. Thank you?

Don't mention it. 

*(Drunk because I got to day-drink after mopping the entire house and the porches too and then I cut my finger really badly and now I'm off the hook for most of the remainder of the week but also it is very hard to type with only nine fingers wtf.)

Revolving shore.

He was here for over a month, feeling his way through the fog and rain, tripping over my moods, veering around the boys with their lack of privacy but keen spatial awareness, who come in right close when you need them and hover on the edges when you don't. Here for a month trying different things and having good talks and feeling productive only to be faced with my uncontrollable, reluctant stonewalling in the next blink of his brown eyes. But now with renewed lockdowns here and a fresh wave of the pandemic, he is headed home.

Bye, Everett. 

In any case, we had a good time, he gave me a fair amount of new perspective and he also made me somehow more keenly aware of things I had refused to acknowledge before. He and Ben had a good reunion, and Duncan too, who probably needed some time with him more than anyone, as our poet goes so easily off the rails and needs to be talked his way back. He went to the same place Ben went and loves Everett to pieces too. 

Ben has once again needlessly yet profusely apologized for throwing Everett into the Collective. He said he had a sudden inspiration and wanted to do something. 

Especially when there are ghosts in the water, ghosts on the beach, ghosts in the orchard and ghosts in the dark, Bee. His face belies his jovial tone. Hahahah it's so funny but I'm scared, is what that says. 

He is grateful his problems are black and white. He said as much, more than once. He understands so much about me but at the same time the part he doesn't truly understand frightens him. It frightens all of them, save for Caleb and Lochlan, for the most part, even though that's a lie and it frightens them too.

But they simply switch gears and operate as if I am a child and it works great, an endeavour that most of the others refuse to engage in and that's when they retreat to the sidelines. It's practiced motion to them, and it works and that's all that matters.

I told Everett not to feel sorry for me. 

Look around. What is there to feel sorry about? 

That you don't feel comfortable in your own skin. 

I never have, so it's not like I know what I'm missing. 

He grinned, tightly enough that I caught it but not enough that the expression didn't reach his eyes. I got a big long hug, then Ben got one too. Then Duncan for good measure. 

***

Ten minutes later the doorbell rings and I thought maybe Everett forgot something. I haven't had time to check his rooms yet to make sure because when I am free I will strip the bed and the bathroom of their linens and make the room up for the next guest, whenever that may be.

But I open the doors and it's Ransom. 

They're going to finally finish the pool. He has everything, sorry for the delays. It's a new architect, same company and once we sign the papers they can start/resume/DO SOMETHING. 

Where is Emmett? I consider telling him we just had an Everett leave and what is with the old fashioned names? I love it. 

He has covid. 

Really? 

He's fine. Asymptomatic but he'll be off until at least the twelfth or maybe it was the twentieth. I can't recall.

Anything we can do for him?

You can message him and ask. 

I'll do that. 

Are you doing this build now or is Caleb? 

I can. 

Alright. May I unpack this here or in the kitchen? 

Here is fine. I pull my mask out of my pocket so he can show me what he needs to. He puts his own on and comes into the foyer.

He gets out all of the plans and paperwork and his iPad that will have a finished render of what this all will look like. I sign everything and he says abruptly that he doesn't need a deposit. I confirm, as I already paid it to the company when they made the previous ugly pool enclosure. I told them to keep it as part of the new one. 

Ransom looks surprised that I know what I'm doing. He gives me credit for nothing. Yes, alright then. We'll resume this weekend since the pouring has had ample time to set.

It's Easter. Seriously? 

That way it will be finished by the ninth. I have a big project beginning after that. 

This isn't big? 

This is ridiculously huge. That's why I need it done before the next big one. 

Well, don't rush. 

The schedule is fine. It's not a rush job, Bridget. 

I'll get Caleb to weigh in for you. I may not be able to give it all of the attention it deserves this week.

Got him. He visibly relaxes. Appreciate it. We'll be here Thursday to start. I''ll let Caleb know the time. 

(Jesus fucking Christ, Ransom.) Sounds good. 

Take care, Bridget.

Bye, Ransom.

***

Duncan is incorrigible and lights up a blunt the moment the sun goes down. We are watching a movie together. Don't worry, he did great in rehab and is down to one or two smokes a week. He's never going to give them up completely but he polices himself a lot better than he used to and he is too cute to fight with about it, though Ben doesn't find that and fights with Duncan every time it comes up. 

Bye, Dunk.

He is asleep twenty-five minutes into the movie so I turn it off and go to see what Dalton is doing. Dalton is the night owl. He is reading and makes space for me to come into his bed and cuddle with him, which I do gratefully. It's cold downstairs and I'm still in my warm-day clothes. 

Or I was, anyway up until that moment. Dalton has other ideas.

Driven by love.

Nolan called me yesterday morning to check in. He had garnered some influence and found me the private plane I needed on short notice when money didn't cut it but friendship did. I could have waited six or eight hours and had one. I did not want to wait. Ten days was enough. 

Ten days is nothing, Nolan barks. That guy should have stayed away forever. 

Then why did you help me? 

Because, Bridget, I would do anything for you. This was for you. He can go fry in hell. 

It stings, though. Just enough that I pull up some armour and say my goodbyes from behind it, slightly muffled but all attempts to be polite just the same. Nolan doesn't let me off the hook but at the same time he's exceedingly gently. 

Bridget, just because you want something doesn't mean it's good for you. Don't forget that. If I didn't have faith in the boys to keep you safe I wouldn't have helped you out at all. 

Yes, you would have. 

No I wouldn't. Look what he did to Ben. What if next time it's you? You're a third of Ben's size. You wouldn't survive it. 

He would never hurt me.

He already did. That's the problem and Bridget, they're just trying to help you any way they can but you've put up a defence of a monster and that's a mental illn-

I have to go. I stare at Caleb while I talk. I love you. Thank you. I choke out the words and hang up.

 I don't know why I'm awake. I was up until four this morning breathing into a paper bag, or so it seemed perhaps I should have been at many points, not the least of which the one where Schuyler helpfully pointed out on the way to the tiny airport where Caleb's plane would be landing that didn't he have to quarantine if entering the province from another? 

A few tears and a mad scramble on our phones and finally confirmation by the airport that as long as he's entering from another province and hasn't left the country, no, he does not. 

We got out of the truck and waited by it, seeing the plan taxiing around already and then it finally stopped and it took forever before they lowered the staircase and he was walking across the tarmac, head down. Not looking at any of us. Looking fierce. Looking exhausted. He stole a glance at Lochlan and went straight to him, embracing him full on. Lochlan is rocked back two steps, bringing Caleb with him. I can't hear what they say to each other but it's a close hug. A positive one. Caleb puts his bags down and finally looks at me. I fly into his arms, off the ground, strangling him with my arms tight around his neck. He squeezes me so hard I squeak and then he puts me down but doesn't let go. 

I was willing to do whatever it takes to make you feel safe, Neamhchiontach. 

Then stay here with us. Where you belong.

It took me the better part of two hours to work through the numbers I have and the resources those numbers provide but I managed to snag a plane in order to surprise my Diabhal.

It's me.

Is everything okay, Bridget? 

Look, I know you just got there but gather your things. Your flight leaves at three.

Who did you speak with?

Nolan, of all people. He still doesn't like you, but he loves me and that's all that matters.

Bridget, we agreed on a few months to see if things got better.

I didn't agree on anything.

The chorus of madness.

I found what I was looking for. One tattered caveat that states that if I see the landslide coming from far off I can overrule everything. 

And it's here. 

When I think about changes I want in my life this is not one of them and I am not a willing participant to this extreme method of dealing with my special brand of trauma. At this point things are too far gone. It's not as simple as Everett thinks it should be (or Lochlan wants it to be). It isn't something I'm willing to entertain anymore. It's just not. 

And it's fine if it's a further symptom of all of this. It's fine if it isn't okay and I've made my peace with it and mostly they have too now. And somehow every time things try and get fixed that is the elephant in the room that everyone goes after, instead of the ghost. 

I won't let go of him either, truth be told. Not anymore, though I would like to figure out a way to keep him from just magically appearing. The worse things get in my head the more he does it and that is how I know things are bad. And I do know why they are so bad but I also think this is a special case and turning trauma into tragedy doesn't work for me.

They'll agree, for a time. I am really high-functioning, after all. Maybe a little too high and so it's alarming when it slides sideways, out of the blue. I am the impending natural disaster all the time. You think you're prepared until it happens and then you panic. 

Bless all of them. I love them so much. And I think in my case, in particular, the ways I have learned to cope with things I can't control is through love and that's the best possible outcome right now. 

We had a meeting last night. I laid all of this out to be inspected and considered. I pointed out the obvious pitfalls, traps and the fallacy of safety. I pointed out roles, rules and regrets and reminded them all of time being the one thing here that we can't control and also the only thing that proves my point. 

It's been so long. So, so long now. 

And so I am there last evening subjugating the entire army and no one could argue with me anymore. They're not going to push so hard after this week. Their attempts to find me some peace and Ben's attempts to kindheartedly repay me for something he doesn't need to backfired gently enough that we missed the sound. I have no blame for anyone. Lochlan has been trying since I was eleven to fix this and he's tried just about everything and then some more but this is a grievous, colossal, complicated part of me now that is too protracted to fix and the deal was comfort at all costs while I live out the rest of my miserable but beautiful existence at his (the Devil's) expense. It can't be fixed. It can't be helped, cured or driven out. I'm not possessed in that way, just in every other way. 

I'm not flexible on this, the way I am on virtually everything else. 

I will not negotiate the terms of my very existence and I won't suffer any further heartbreak under rules that I made, and I now remind them that if anyone doesn't agree based on what I've laid out that they are free to go, but oh I will miss them. 

But if they can't live peacefully with these decisions then the door is there. 

I would miss them so terribly, though, and it wouldn't be fair at all and to that end they also can remain here and live in this odd comfort, this brotherhood. My army. 

And no one moved. Not a soul. I stood back and watched as the wall fell on them, blocking any escape, covering us all in the weight of the past and we grabbed for each other's hands and just held on.

Thanks for clarifying, Poet.

I've resorted to staring at my own reflection in the window. I'm having a reluctant hunger strike. Food is the last thing on my mind. Smiling is a chore. The weight of my face is too great. There is nothing to smile about. May as well take the other one too and finish me off. Take the ghosts (Jake is still here but so quiet), take the dreams. Take it all. What's the difference anymore?

Hey, Bridge. 

I don't turn. I look tired and I don't want anyone to see it.

Just to set the record straight Lochlan was the only one who voted for him to stay. 

I turn slowly. 

He said you would break. He was adamant. He was scared to death. He said you were in love and that it wouldn't be much different than any other tragedy at this point and he begged us to change our minds but we didn't We either hyped each other up or we were looking for an easy solution. 

But he took the blame. 

He's that kind of guy. He's never going to say it wasn't him, or he didn't do it. You know that. 

But he's in charge. How did this go through-

It was unanimous, Bridget. We all said yes. He doesn't have veto over that.

I thought he did. 

Well, he doesn't and he was willing to listen to us, maybe he thought he was too emotional to force the issue. Maybe too close, if there is such a thing-

There is. 

Then that would be him, right?

It would.

What did you have for lunch? 

She had an olive. That's it. I've been watching her all morning. PJ the Rat. Remind me to keep a closer eye on him. Sorry my appetite is gone. Must have left when he left. I told them it was a bad idea and now they're wondering what's wrong. 

What's wrong? I told them all what would be wrong but once again grand experiments and their inevitable, crushing conclusions must be enacted and then reenacted until every last person admits defeat or their faults or the truth, whichever impulse they hit on first out of so many. Feelings are fireworks and it's always a holiday here on Point Perdition. 

Jesus Christ, Bridgie. You need to eat. 

I'm not hungry. 

Doesn't matter. 

I'm not doing this right now. I go outside. It's six degrees in the sun, if you're lucky. If you can find it in these dark clouds. Most of them I self-generate. I'm very proud of my cloud production. They are dense, high-quality VantablackTM clouds and good luck if you're caught in my storm. 

Lochlan follows. Peanut. I just want you to stay healthy. 

Jesus, Lochlan. I'm an adult. It was one meal. I had a granola bar an hour before! Sorry. 

He relaxes. Interesting because I lied. I didn't have breakfast either. If I eat I will throw up so I'll fake it until they notice because I can't afford to lose any more weight or I'll be a ghost too. 

It's not forever. 

I don't think it'll be through the weekend, actually. 

What do you mean? 

I need him to come back. You promised and you lied too so we're even but this is where he needs to be.

Bridg-

Just call him. 

We'll have a meeting. 

Great. Another meeting. Should be productive. 

What's the matter? 

EVERYTHING.

(Welcome to our spectacle, carny rides eccentical.)*

Yes, I still go outside in the orchard with my headphones in my clown jumpsuit (no mask though, I have it but I can't breathe in a mask while dancing) and do the whole diamond clown #17 dance from this video.

Hell, yes, it's cathartic. Hell yes, I have the suit and let me tell you, it's heavy. This is a better warmup and more exercise than just about anything else in the universe. I don't want to pedal a bike to nowhere, flip tires or do reps. I want to dance. And since everyone laughs when I express interest in doing Bhangra, this is it for me. I have found my niche and it's no surprise it involves clowns, is it? I freaking love clowns. Whoop whoop.

***

The party's over now because the rain has started in earnest. I don't even want to stand outside with the dog but the woodstove is glowing red in the kitchen and the groceries are bought and put away and even the eggs are in the new egg basket in the fridge and so my chores are done and I get to draw and paint for the rest of the afternoon and drink coffee and eat fresh croissants and then snuggle in with Lochlan to hopefully finish American Gods. At least that's how I see the day in my head now that I'm too tired to think too hard. 

*(Today's title is from Tilt-A Whirl, which is an equally fun song to dance to, FYI.)

Lent: week five.

Sam's come out of hibernation with the first day of spring. Present and combed, beard trimmed short, collar pressed, a new feature on this odd bug, noted also are the matching shoes, picking up the browns in his shirt and his hair. 

Are you objectifying me? Judging me based on appearances? 

Maybe. I wink at him but it's with effort to be jovial, generous. 

How are things? I feel as if I haven't seen you but I'm trying to step back and let the others have space to work with you. 

That makes me sound like some kind of avant-garde art installation. 

I hope you'll take it as a compliment, then. 

My eyebrows go up but I don't say anything. 

You look sad and exhausted, Bridge. 

Oh, he's just going to walk in and thrust his torch against every soft, flammable surface today. I try to put it out with tears but then he yanks it back. 

I'm fine, actually. My shaky hand gives it away as I try to wipe the lone tear that's headed for the floor suddenly. 

I didn't mean to upset you. What can I do? 

Got your crystal ball handy? 

God has great plans for you, Beautiful. 

You sound like someone I used to know. I laugh bitterly. 

Things are going to get better now. 

No, Sam. We're just going to wait. And then things will go back to the way they were. 

I hope they don't. What about you? 

I wish there was an easier way. 

***

Ben's hand comes up against the back of my neck in the dark. The wind is howling through the window, blowing the curtains wildly against the glass. Blowing the flames against the edges of the night. He pulls me up against him, his head bending down against my shoulder, a kiss I can't return as I am pushed back down flat on the quilts, turned over by the hips and then crushed underneath his weight, a casualty of Ben's hunger that now looms large but more sporadically than before. My cry is stifled by his hand over my mouth, pulling my head back up against his chest. His head is against the top of mine. I wonder if I'll die this way. I tap his forearm and he lightens his grip on me by more than half and I can breathe again. 

He picks a slow and steady rhythm, pulling me down on the upstroke and up on the down and it hurts so beautifully I hope it lasts all week. His hand slides down underneath me and soon I am in a frenzy against his hold, and then again. And then again, with fresh tears as the frustrations of the week go up in the smoke from the fire. 

He turns me back over, resuming his customary gentle-roughness, his oops-didn't-mean-to-break-that barrage on through the night, his attempts to make everything better. I hold on so tight, arms around his shoulders, my face held against his heart now, legs around his hips as he scoops me up hard against him, taking me to outer space a few more times before he comes with me to see the stars before he finally gives me a long kiss and lets go. It's cold for a mere second, enough for me to catch my breath and then Lochlan pulls me in close. Ben disappears and Lochlan's practised hands take over and by the time the sun comes up I have everything I ever wanted, including sleep, having slept jammed underneath Lochlan's chin, my lips against his Adam's apple, his arm thrown over my back, my arms tucked in between us, the customary, longtime position, consummate safety.

Jesus springtide.

The regret came with the sunset, the usual time of day when everything hurts more, stings harder, feels worse. The homesick hour. Whoever named it Golden Hour never met my mind because it's a searing ache that catches my breath in my throat and leaves me in tears if I'm not busy while it's happening. It's been that way since I was very young and Bailey was suddenly too old to be sent with me to the family farm for the summer and suddenly I was the only child there, working in the sun, standing in the living room watching the river as the sun set over the hills and wishing I was with someone who understood me. The moment I hit double digits I started spending summers with Lochlan and he turned them into a magical time of day but I still fight against that weird feeling of complete and utter abandonment. Bailey and I are not as close as I wished we had been. We're too far apart in age but at the same time she was more of a parent than our parents and I miss her every day.

I miss him too. I picked up my phone and stared at it. A single word message this morning confirming safety on the other side and I haven't responded. I am to forget. I am to try. I am to follow these new rules only I don't know who they're for. Him or me? What's the point of all this again? Oh, right. Improvement in the immediate, alarming issues and then a head-start or a fresh start or a new start or whatever the fuck this is. I don't know. I don't care. 

I pick up my phone and type a reply and then I erase it. I type another and then I erase that one too and it's like he knows I'm here. Another message pops up from him. He probably saw me typing but then nothing went through. The second message is just a heart.

Oh, he's trying. This is good. I send one back, off the hook, out of the fire and the frying pan and I turn off my screen, putting my phone in the pocket of my sweater. 

***

It's dark finally and we got through a mountain of early-spring yardwork. It's a new season. It's another fresh start and I am throwing myself into doing good. Into doing better. New music, new haircut, new jacket. New mittens. New gardening gloves and new shoes. A whole new me. New church on the podcast but piped through the big speakers while we listen and eat our breakfast in the easy silence of a rainy Sunday. New season. New hurt.

Brambles (Bridget-rambles, also very thorny if they catch you the wrong way).

 I don't think he could catch Jacob, that man was always four feet off the ground, walking on clouds while we walked on the hard ground. Never had dusty shoes. Never had shoes on. Who needs them when you don't have to fight your way over broken glass or sharp rocks, never have to step on the backs of those you climbed over to get to where you are now. Never had to be a mortal because he wasn't and he knew long before the rest of us that his heaven would welcome him so much earlier. He was a VIP. Early entry. Separate doors. Credentials? Check.

He caught Cole easily enough. Cole's black wings never lie completely flat. They stick up, bent and charred, singed and ratty, easy enough to grab, folding around his solid frame, tying the outside feathers closed over his blue-black eyes so I don't have to see the frightening expression on his face and then he threw him in the backseat of the car. Company for the road. Someone to talk to when there's no one left to talk to. Someone to be present for the fast lane, an exit in double-time just to get it over with. 

Probably thinking about the ones that got away. 

I take a breath and turn back. Not going to dwell on right or wrong or feelings or sudden failure or abrupt and uncomfortable homesickness of the space now empty. I go and sit in the room. Bed stripped, desk cleared. Suitcase gone from where it was open on the side table for the better part of a week. Promises given. Times set for contact if I want it. 

I don't want it. I was so busy. So tired. So shell-shocked and then it just became habit, muscle-memory and now once again the whiplash is fierce and stinging. I'm distracting. I'm working. I'm trying to sort out a lower, softer, kinder and more bitter version of White Dress this morning but I'm just not into it,  the image of the car driving out the driveway and pausing at the top is stuck in my mind and I was hoping the reverse lights would come on but then it was gone and with him, my ghosts. 

Maybe they were only here because of him. Maybe he was sent here to take them back, when the time was right. Maybe the joke is less of a lark and more like the truth than I realized. Maybe pigs flew overhead as he drove down the highway. Maybe we set off fireworks in the form of sparks here, suddenly able to focus again for the spectre of history, the fog of war has cleared. 

Maybe I'm drunk at eight in the morning because someone else has decided for me that if the day is fuzzy around the edges it's be easier even though I just said we could focus now. By we I mean them, not me, and you agree, so you drink half of it,

 (You stupid girl, this took way too long.)

(That's how I do things, you know this by now!)

(Bridgie, who are you talking to?)

call it breakfast, call it a day, call it a draw, call it how you see it. I don't care. It's not up for debate. It's done, and it's as big an experiment as anything else, don't you think?

If you love me, you'll love me.

What would you do if I wouldn't sing for them no more?
Like if you heard I was out in the bars drinking jack and coke
Going crazy for anyone who would listen to my stories, babe?
Time after time, I think about leaving
But you know that I never do, just because you keep me believing

Indulging in a rainy, windy day, a bottomless mug of the really good coffee, courtesy of August's Breville monstrosity and the new Lana Del Rey album, because August is one of the few here who tolerates my smalltown-beach-lovesong-acoustic aesthetic or whatever it was PJ called it yesterday in uncharacteristic but complete familiar and bitter disdain.

Lochlan still sleeps, bed swaying gentle three feet off the floor. This suspended bed will never get old for me, matching the surprise I feel now when August all but encourages me to bring Lochlan. 

No, that never gets old.

Yesterday morning I watched the car go up the drive. 

You going to go back to letting me help for the time being? 

All hands on deck.

All hands on deck, he repeats. I can hardly hear it. So soft. 

I turn and look at him. I don't say anything else.

It'll be okay, Bridget. Just like before when he wasn't here.  He made me rethink a few things and I think we can keep you on track. 

We couldn't and we won't, because we (I) wouldn't/won't let us (them). Ha.

I can sabotage the very best moments, and as always nothing changed. Except for that fleeting second of relief as he left, which bled down into the rain, colouring the water with a bloom of grey.

Ran into the dark, Lana sings and I nod. Yes, indeed I did.

A little oversharing and a little esoterism, all at the same time.

(Sorry. Not sorry, actually.)

This morning sees rainclouds over the water, a Foy Vance slow-dance to Fifteen through the kitchen while making breakfast together, nose to nose. Coffee on the patio, braving the uncovered stone area, ready to run at a moment's notice but for now enjoying the cool salt air, the cloying early spring pollen and the heavy dimness that surrounds us on the cliff, in the trees. 

He is home, not this place, further to my thoughts from the other day. His crazy-long red hair, clipped words and devastating integrity always left me wishing I was cooler, older, more sure of myself and less inclined to fight him at every turn. This man who made me do math worksheets while sitting at a sticky picnic table under an awning, out of the sun in the bug-heat of August in the middle of a midway so that I would be smarter when I went into grade 6, because grade 6 was harder math than grade 5, from his recollection and that way if I did well in school I could continue to spend summers with him. Who taught me how to tie bows backwards on my shoes so they would lie flatter and not stick up, who braided my hair for me every single morning and then wrapped the braid around my head two or three times so that I looked like a Swiss milkmaid in just about every summer photo ever taken because he was terrified I would get my very long hair trapped in the machinery or caught in a door or pulled somehow but at the same time he loved it so and wouldn't hear of the suggestion to cut it even though I didn't care one way or another.

Get a room. Jesus. PJ mock-complains as he comes in and finds us trying to clean up from breakfast but mostly kissing instead. 

Did that, Lochlan mutters in return. 

Too bad you're not in it right now, PJ continues. 

And how, Lochlan agrees and then laughs out loud. It's a good day, oddly. A better day with more sleep, more perspective, and a corner turned, somewhat abruptly, to a whole new stage in life.