Foggy Jesus/Withdrawals.

I can't see anything this morning. Our whole world is encased in a thick fog. The ocean is gone, hell, the gazebo is gone. Matt is gone on a quick trip home to see family and Sam didn't really want to travel right now so they amicably agreed to miss each other and then everyone else got pissed off when I said we would keep Sam company until Matt comes back on Wednesday. He was sent in the jet which, I KNOW I KNOW carbon footprint but also CORONAVIRUS so there.

(Also I have zero input on that. Caleb offered. Matt accepted. I don't think he even wanted to go before that. It's a duty visit and those suck balls.)

I am playing a quiet/sappy playlist through my air pods and enjoying this very much Maritimer-specific weather for once. It's freaking cold out but doable in a hoodie, and we are walking the property as we try to do at least once a week to check for problems, changes, updating our list on what's been done and what hasn't, checking to see if anything big and weird washed up on the beach (I wait for the ubiquitous west coast shoe with a foot inside but it hasn't happened. I'm telling the truth. Yes, I love bones but never from people. Unless they're teeth. I love teeth.), if any parts of the fence have been broken, if any trees have fallen or if any outbuildings are insecure (like yours truly). 

Sam isn't saying much of anything. I think he's tired. I know I wore him to smithereens and he swore in the dark and fell asleep next to Lochlan, forehead pressed against Lochlan's shoulder and I laughed so quietly and Lochlan smiled and said it was probably for the best. We're a huge comfort mechanism for Sam and he for us. No explanations no apologies and no boundaries whatsoever, there. 

I am singing along with The Weeknd and abruptly Sam turns back and laughs silently at me, or so I think. I pull out an air pod and he suggests I turn it down slightly so I can hear myself. If I can hear I can sing in key. If I can't hear myself I will...not. And it is funny but it's also mildly stinging and so I fall back further, letting my notebook swing in my hand as I follow him. No more singing then, he can have silence. Besides, Ben and Lochlan are still asleep and since Sam is off for his sabbatical I don't understand why we're the ones up working early on a Sunday but we are also the ones who are the early birds, chirping at the clouds, marvelling at the rain, watching for the sun. Sam says a quick prayer before we walk out the door and now here we are, sniping at each other lovingly as we go. 

He's promised to make me coffee and eggs Benedict with crab cakes AND English muffins when we go in and he even said a double-order of hash browns is possible if I want. 

That's why I didn't throw the notebook at him back and stomp off into the fog already. 

I'm not dumb.

Nameless, graceless, oh and untouchable too.

Ben was on a facetime call on his laptop and I thought he was on speakerphone so I came right up beside him only to be caught onscreen. He's on with someone he sometimes writes with/for and is giving advice or maybe they're just shooting the shit and I try to sneak away before I can be acknowledged, stepping back around so the laptop faces away.

Hey...is that...she looks so familiar. Hey did that girl used to be on your Canadian tours sometimes? She wasn't with you though. A friend, I think you said. 

We're together now. 

Funny, Since you said friend before, I went for that sweet little piece of ass so hard. She looked like a deer in the headlights when I tried to talk to her. I was right beside her during your set. Looked right at me, almost through me and then just turned and left. She said nothing. She was cold-

She's deaf. 

What's that? She was playing at it to avoid me? 

No, she's actually deaf. But since my speakers are up loud she can hear you now so keep it respectful as I'd hate to have to end the call. 

No harm, no foul, man. 

Maybe apologize to my lady, who is still in the room. 

I am sorry, Miss...? I didn't catch your name. I didn't mean to be crass. I am appreciative of your beauty to the point where I forgot to be polite. Please accept my apologies. 

Ben is smiling at me. He's amused. Tour times are far in the past now. This right here is one of the reasons I rarely visited him backstage. I would go and give my regards to people I knew and on my way back I would be ambushed by people I didn't. Tours were a little hedonistic and weird, to say the least. 

I stick my middle finger up at Ben and he cackles in his drawl behind the screen. This guy can't see me and Ben moves along. All good, man. No worries. Thanks for that. Now did you need my manager to send you details-

With that I leave the room. I have actual cold icky chills from that feeling and I want to be up by the fire where it's warm. Maybe Caleb can pour me a brandy. Maybe I could pretend I was someone else but for some reason they always remember me so easily.

MIA.

The very good news is the heavy-machinery part of the driveway is done (after four long days of noise) and the very Bougie part of having a whole team laying bricks by hand has begun. It's a thankless, tedious, back-breaking job and I intend to reward each team member aside from whatever Ransom is paying. I've already ordered them hot breakfasts and hot lunches each day and bring them tea and lemonade in between meals and Ransom is mad that they take far too many breaks here. 

Have you laid brick? I dare you to try it and tell me a lot of breaks aren't required. 

He didn't dare say anything else and the hot meals will continue, though apparently they will be finished by Saturday night. 

I mean, that's pretty good. And next week will be quiet. I hope. I did a huge grocery shop with Ben. Surprisingly there are still no good cereals (Kelloggs is having a moment. A stop work order, I believe so no product due to labour disputes) and God knows where all the spices went, but I can make my own Italian seasoning and I did find pepper and I will use fresh stuff dried and stored from last year's gardens for everything else. 

Next week is a car week, as my vintage Jeep needs some TLC...A starter motor and some liquid or linkage for the four-wheel-drive. I don't know. It bit the biscuit over the last snow event and while I could buy a starter and bolt it on, I just want it done and no one wants to work on it with me so I will pay stupid labour costs to the garage too. Why not, I'm on a roll here. 

Then the cats. Oh yes. The cats. One is terminal as I said yesterday and lives on pain meds and cuddles these days with a super-short prognosis, and the other has an auto-immune disease and needs meds now too and suddenly the pets are all ancient, the kids are all grown up, Lochlan has an errant white streak appearing at his temple and all of the boys are staring down advanced middle age and I am here still stuck at seventeen and screaming for them to slow down so I can keep up. 

There's your barometer, I tell Sam, who sits patiently at the big table in the kitchen, iPad, notebook, phone, bible and coffee cup in front of him. 

Sounds like a good one. Not too busy, not too bored, not too panicked, didn't mention ghosts even once, worried more about your Apple Jacks than your devil and not the least bit worried about your own mental health. To what do you attribute the change today?

The noise finished so I'm grateful. And also the full moon is over. Oh, and the days are getting longer and have you seen Jake cause I can't find him at all lately.

George likes to add spaces and Bridget isn't impressed.

If the editing is wonky again let me just tell you George drags himself through life like a depressed sloth and no matter how fast I get going on a keyboard he is rife with insolence, determined to do his own thing here, and I am left also annoyed but in the dust. He has control over my dominate hand and control he will, even as I rail and go back time and time again to add the words he refused to type, change the words he added in spite of what I wanted to write and fix up the cadence, grammar and punctuation. I still see things I missed and I'm too headachey-tired to bother fixing it all a fourth time here today so never fucking mind, George. You win. Happy now?

In other news, the weather looks like it is going to hold for the weekend and I can fire my kiln. I'm very excited about this but also I did not make enough things and now I'm sad because as always life is about having all the time in the world and then suddenly having none (George tried to write now right there, gosh I hate him sometimes). On the upside the good weather for our region is coming, and the bad is retreating. The days will be longer and so I'm excited to have more time, not less with which to experiment and try things and make things. Even if it's all little trinkets and gifts for people. I've always wanted to do this. 

Schuyler asked me about marketing last night, as in if I have a plan to sell things. Maybe locally? I also had an invitation to sell my wares on a relative's website but I am only thinking about that for now, and not really sure what to do. Let me focus on being happy with what I make first and then I will worry about the rest of it. 

In any case, at least George likes to make things with me. Maybe he was a repressed fifties business man and he wanted to be a creative gay? Who knows. I just know we're both happier lately when we're not writing, which is an absolute first for me and a horrible, strange feeling overall. It will come back. I hope. 

I feel like I've somehow tested positive for pandemic-fatigue. Or maybe it's life-fatigue. I just know one of my cats is terminal, the other two pets ancient and hardly mobile, the whole house seems so empty without Ruth and I'm all but torturing Henry with frettish attention and the fact that life is still shut down and everything is awful is beginning to catch up with me in a way I didn't expect. For once it's not the dead, it's the living that's the problem and this is new. I hate it, for the record. At least the ghost emotions were predictable.

Recipe for a good night's sleep.

We were alone. He had my face in his hands and his weight on my whole heart, lowering himself slowly into me, never breaking his gaze. It's a nightly reinvention for us. A show, just for us. An intense, quick-burning but slow-smouldering act of contrition against everything (and everyone) else. By the time our hipbones touch I am desperate for the inevitable quickening of our pace which always follow a languid, almost-hesitant to the point of torturous beginning. He always looks for my doubt and he can extinguish it quickly, an errant spark left to burn before being put out for safety. Lochlan was my very first true lover and he will be my last. That alone gives us a depth that no one else can touch. 

A kiss followed by one hand moving away while the other slides down around my neck. The one that moves away is now against my hip, flattening my pelvis out for him as the gentleness leaves us in favour of that desperation I referenced before. I pull the sheets up around us with both arms and then give up if only to hold on to something that isn't moving at all. Then I give up on that too and hold his arms, muscles flexing them almost too big for me to hold onto so I am clutching his shoulders.

Are you looking for a handle? He whispers with a laugh as he pulls back and flips me onto my face. Pulling my hips up while I laugh into the blankets I am flattened out once more, this time under the weight of his own heart, and I close my eyes. He takes my  hands and pulls them up above my head where he gathers them in one of his hands, and his other hand presses my stomach up so that my back is pressed against his chest and abdomen. The whole world ignites in this space now and the darkness is left behind. His lips press against my temple, his breath ragged in my hair. I am a captive audience. I am a meal. I am flammable, combustible-girl for Lochlan's very own brand of fire. I am sent to the moon while he circles around the stars, joining me on the surface to see the earth, just for a moment.

And we are warm at last. His breathing slows, his hands unclench, his whole body relaxes as he lies down beside me, pulling me up and into his arms, letting my hands fall. A kiss against my lips and his fingers to smooth away the hair from my face and his own and he presses his forehead in hard against mine. 

Good? 

So good, I whisper back.

He nods and pulls my shoulders in close so my head tucks underneath his chin. We are both asleep in seconds. 

Useful idiot.

One good thing about Ransom is he'll always ask for my list. He knocked on the door yesterday late afternoon and Dalton got it and then all of the sudden Ransom is in my kitchen, masked up, as per house rules if you don't live on the point, asking me if I have anything else for him to do. There's always a honey-do list on the side of the fridge with things that Have To Be Done and yesterday was no exception. 

There's the caulking at the bottom of the stairs, the screen door needs to be replaced on Duncan's door and on August's and caulking the kids' bathroom so check the others, the step at the bottom of the sauna is rotted through and if you can find out what's taking my electrician so long. Just kidding, that one is on me. 

I cough and he asks when I booked.Then he says to just have PJ call and cancel and Ransom's guy will do it. 

It was done by four-thirty and now I have an operating kiln and no time to try it out. 

Actually there's a little problem with the fact that it needs to be outside. I would wheel it out on a dolly. I'm not concerned. But I need a roof over it so the stables need a porch. Then they won't be stables anymore and it will just be a fully-fledged house and I can just go live in it and get away from these-

Anything else? 

No, that's it thank you. 

He winks and turns and leaves. Just like that. Perfect. 

Dalton asks which crystal he should bring down to fix the vibes in the room now. 

All of them. 

PJ laughs from the couch where he waits for me. Right beside Lochlan. Lochlan is where those vibes came from. He likes Ransom less than I do.

I'm not going near the front of the house today. That's where all the noise is.

Today's t-shirt reads ONLY THE BLONDE SURVIVE. I love it. Matt got it for me in an airport overseas somewhere and it's starting to pill slightly. It also pulls just a little in the front and the cut is perfect for a girl. Nipped in at the waist and skims over my hips perfectly. Sleeves actually fit. When I wear Ben's XL men's shirts it's like putting on a black garbage bag. Shapeless but soft. I threw on green leggings with it, since the shirt is ivory with pink bands at the arms and neck and I look like a little kid fresh out of her snowsuit, complete with messed up hair. I dried my hair with a blow dryer but I couldn't find my brush. Then I started coughing anyway and added a sweater to my outfit because within an hour Lochlan will demand I put one on.

Cue a hot chocolate, because damn near everyone's trained now. 

And we've hit that part of January where not only did most of the boys go for a dry January if they aren't already in recovery, but they really went for a dry January, in that the remainder of the solitary men almost one by one gave up the faint hope in their dating apps and unsubscribed and deleted them off their phones. 

They do this every year. 

It always makes me vaguely sad but also mindful of years past when the desperate, poor-decision panic would set in so that people would not be alone for the holidays and the boys would make a go of burgeoning relationships in one of the most stressful periods of the year. It never ended well. I doubt it ever would, except in rare occasions and I see this as an armchair anthropologist, always. I've watched these boys my whole life and life is a roller coaster with free admission, for sure.

PJ has his head in my lap as I sit by the fire gingerly holding my piping hot drink over his head and trying to take sips as he laments the state of the world, that this wasn't what he intended but that he also wouldn't change a thing and he can't quantify why he feels fulfilled but he does. It's a stream of consciousness existential crisis and he has a few each year. 

I'll indulge him until he's good and finished because he's had nothing but time for me. I braid his beard while he talks and look at the colour of his eyes and the flecks of light in his irises and I will lament the almost-waste of a perfect man save for the fact that he did say he was fulfilled and maybe not becoming a husband and father but still having the role for the best years of his life is enough. 

This is a man who cried a little the other day when Ruth came in and told him how many paintings she sold over the holidays and how much she made by doing so. He's always got patience and concern and pure love for all of us and it shows. PJ's love language is service and I'm glad he's never let that part of him shut down. 

He's also the world's most comfortable human weighted blanket. 

He's also rude and completely incorrigible and I love him for that too.

I love that my face is mere inches from your-

Padraig! Don't be gross. We were having a moment. 

We could have a moment-

Hush, you.

Unspoiled.

What is happening with the fountain?

They're going to change it up. A Cherub, maybe. You choose.

Medusa. 

Bridg-

You told me to choose! That makes the most sense, honestly. 

The fountain is getting a big upgrade. And they'll be removing the little pond altogether and just making it look like the rest. Perennials. Etc. etc. Work starts tomorrow because of course, ofc. ofc. Just delay someone else's project so you can pull a whole team and come harass Bridget and overcharge and just..GOD. I wish we could get a new contractor. Emmett is 'unavailable' (I love that word so much) and Ransom is weirdly free. 

RIIIIIIIGHT. 

Yes, so Medusa. 

We'll discuss it. What if we got some koi-

No. Take the pond out, please. It should never have been there in the first place. No one was going to look after it. 

Caleb looks so defeated. We're trying to make this a paradise for you, Neamhchiontach. When you are happy, we'll be happy. 

I thaw a tiny bit. I liked it before. 

It was muddy and deteriorating pavement. 

I know. Now it's just so...sterile. 

Your input is what makes it less so. He's so gentle with his words. 

The fountain is ridiculous. What if we take it out? 

And put in? 

An apple tree with a swing and a garden of flowers around it. Some more lampposts.

Done. 

Oh, thank God. 

You hate the fountain that much?

It looks like when you drive up to a hotel. It's dumb looking. I want a home, not a house. 

I start coughing again and he says that's enough for now and heads off to make hot chocolate for me. It's like a bottomless cup. 

He returns in five minutes with a cup on a plate and some cut up apples. Good, I wasn't about to indulge you with the Medusa anyway.

No Easy.

In a commune full of big, strapping, ridiculously-healthy men it's almost hilarious how the germs go in circles, bypassing everyone with any seriousness until they get to me. The weakest link. The runt, as it were, feral girl prone to every last crumb of sickness and once I get and develop it into a full-blown illness then I give it back to everyone, they work through it and then it lingers only to infect me once more. 

It's not Covid. I've been tested twice now. It's just the flu. Probably because I sleep three or four hours a night and just run on white-knuckle breath-held vibrations and that never changes. Lochlan was running a mild fever too this morning almost as if on instruction, as the doctor said this will run it's course in a few days and to call him if anyone spikes a fever over 104 or if we can't keep control of the symptoms. I worry slightly about Caleb and about New Jake who are both men with health concerns but they both seem fine. 

(Do not even ask me why New Jake wouldn't be fine because I ain't talking.) 

Daniel has the sniffles but no fever. PJ coughed once and Caleb glared at him until he lied and said he breathed his coffee by mistake instead of swallowing it, and otherwise everything seems good so at least it's not pneumonia (I still have at least eight weeks to get that and I'm sure there's one with my name on it waiting in the wings, as ever) and it's not bronchitis. The other favourite.

I lamented being sick all the time and Lochlan pointed out germs are heavier than air so it makes sense if I'm shorter I catch more. Like krill for a baleen whale. I'm just walking through life filtering them with my teeth. 

A vision.

Indeed.

Bathic content.

(I'm doing nothing but waiting so here's a post about nothing.)

Lochlan reaches up and turns on the light on the chest of drawers. My face is illuminated in the mirror. Delirious eyes, wild hair. Pink cheeks. He kisses my shoulder, without taking his eyes from mine in our reflection.

Bathtime. 

I close my eyes and he leads me into the big ensuite and I am put on the chair to not fall over while he runs the water in the tub. He adds a capful of rose oil and a capful of bubbles and then one of salts too (which takes away a lot of the bubbles) and then he comes back and takes off the Hello Kitty pajamas I am still wearing. 

We can burn these. 

They're my favourite. 

I'll get you a new set. He kisses my forehead (should we burn that too? I feel like I already am, from the inside out) and I'm neck-deep in bubbles finally. I lie back against the little pillow and instantly slide down so that just my face is visible. 

Good? Lochlan appears upside down above me. 

Come in with me. 

After I wash your hair. 

He sits on the little stool by the tub where I normally keep my phone and washes my hair for me before stripping down and sliding into the tub behind me. The water is now up to my shoulders and I'm still sitting up. He lies back and I use him as a pillow. I offer sleepily to wash his hair and he says he doesn't want salt in it. 

Salt should be in everything, I point out. 

Tomorrow you can have a saltwater bath then. 

I don't know what he means but I close my eyes and breathe in the steam and my throat feels a little better. The doctor is coming after lunch today. He would have been over first thing but he is flying back. It's fine. I'm not going anywhere. Other people have far worse problems. Get to me when you get to me, I think and before I know it our time is up in the tub, because Lochlan doesn't want me to overheat. 

I could live in the bathtub.

Come on, mermaid. Let's get you dry. He steps out and towels his skin off quickly, giving me the most wonderful show while he's doing it. His milk-pink skin, freckles scattered everywhere like sun stars, hair still tied back, woodchopping/fire throwing muscles threatening to blow his white-collar cover, as ever. Tattoos damned never everywhere now and I love it. He was late to the game, but took it up eventually.

What are you staring at?

You. 

Let me return the favour then. He holds out his hands and I take them, stepping ungracefully over the very high side of the tub. He wraps me up in a giant towel and lets the water out of the tub and then comes back.  

Oops. Forgot your hair.

It's fine. 

Another towel and he blots my whole head. (One of the advantages of being with a man with super crazy curls is he doesn't rub your head dry like he's polishing wax off a car. My hair used to be straw for a while there, right through the Cole/Jake/Ben years, but now it's shiny and soft again. God, my brain's going everywhere. It's probably a prion disease). 

I am combed and dressed in clean clothes. A warm baggy sweater and comfortable soft jeans. Matching Lochlan only his sweater is a navy and mine a robin's egg blue. Our jeans are the same shade of dark indigo and he goes back, after a thought, and gets socks for me. Thick cream-coloured wool socks that feel so nice. I am the barefoot princess, usually. 

I wait for a hat and a coat, possibly, but he seems satisfied at last. 

Breakfast-

-I'm starving.

God, I love it when we can read each other's minds. Good girl, he says, and I go weak in the knees.

Hello sicky.

Two in the morning and there's a knock at the door. I startle awake because I'm a light sleeper. Lochlan's hand grips mine and then lets go as he turns over. He's in dreams, at the fair, no doubt. His happy place. Way back at the start. 

I open the door just a little. The Devil's face in shadow from the light from the windows at each end of the hall. 

Neamhchiontach. Will you come to me? 

I study his face in the dark. The expression holds, as if cast in stone and I meet his eyes. Yes. 

I come back to the nightstand for my phone while he waits by the door. Lochlan touches my hand and then makes his warning. 

You bite her again and I'll kill you. 

You have my word. Caleb says it softly in order not to wake up Ben. 

I close the door gently and we move down the hall, around the corner and to his door. He bends down to kiss me on the forehead and then opens the door and waits for me to enter first. His rooms are dark. He wagered on me saying no, or not being allowed. He turns on a few low lights and the gas fireplace and then comes back close to me, pulling me in against his chest, tucking his head down toward mine, breathing in my hair. 

He exhales slowly, as if he has been holding himself tense and ready.  I hold my breath like a line thrown from a ship and I'm in the water. As hard as I can. It forces me to cough and he just holds tighter, smoothing his hand up and down my back as if to soothe me. His hand is warm. 

For once. 

When I stop long enough for him to relax again he steps back away from me, shrugging out of his jacket in one motion. It's fine wool but he lets it fall to the floor in a crumple anyway, and then he takes his cufflinks off. He doesn't unbutton his shirt though and he steps closer again, hands around the hem of my Hello Kitty pajama top. It's a glorified t-shirt. Soft and thin. He pulls it up gently and I raise my arms over my head dutifully. The shirt joins the jacket. He takes his shirt off quickly and pulls me back in to his warmth and I don't mind. It's cold. 

The sound of the rain against the windows drowns out anything he has said so far, or maybe he's said nothing. Either way we stare at each other but don't speak. He lets his pants fall so he's down to his briefs and I'm still in my pants, shivering now. I look at my shirt and he snatches it up, pulling it back over my head, threading my limbs through the holes. 

For now, he reassures himself and again, I say nothing. 

He leads me down the hall into the dark and I can appreciate his form. Strong and tall. Confident in a way that only comes with time and money. A sudden confidence compared to the acting he did at my bedroom door. Just vulnerable enough for me to drop my guards and then back to predictable devil. 

He takes his time. He takes all night, almost. I am not released for sleep just yet though. He isn't finished with me yet. 

And then I cough again and he stops. 

Bridget, are you sick? 

I didn't think I was. It's just a tickle. 

By morning there is a roaring fever to accompany that cough and I can hardly move. No one blames him, though. I am still in my pajamas, and they are stuck to me as I sweat right through them. It wasn't cold. It was chills. It wasn't a delirious dream, it was a fever dream. The best and worst kind all at once.

Honoured.

Home to the Devil and the magician who take notes and are collaborating this morning on breakfast. There's a roaring fire in the woodstove, all my tiny lights are lit and nothing else and the rain pours down outside like a punishment for something dire. They are making marshmallow fluff toast and hot chocolate mixed with coffee. My very own early cafe mocha, as it were. Lochlan makes a last-minute healthy choice to peel an orange, as is his custom so that I don't die of scurvy but I always feel like Veruca Salt at the chocolate factory in life. 

Or maybe that's Augustus Gloop. 

Shakti. Lochlan's voice floods into my head. It's amusing. Caleb can't hear him in here.

Either way, I am well-fed, rested-up, touched-out and content right at this moment. I reach up to hit the pause and Caleb takes credit. Almost instantly, before my finger can touch that invisible but necessary button, he crows that he knew it would work. Lochlan glowers at him but says nothing and I let my arm come back in close against my body for warmth. Not pausing right here, suddenly I'd like to hurry through. Suddenly my handknit sweater isn't warm enough and the fire's heat isn't reaching me and the coffee's grown cold in the cup. 

Lochlan feels it and comes and pulls me in against him, his arm tight around me, fist holding me to his heartbeat. A kiss on the top of my head stakes his claim and I am written into the logs as his forever. I always thought I never deserved it maybe, or that he was simply too good to be true. Oftentimes I thought I would never be good enough or that his standards were so high I couldn't see over the top and then he reminds me that life is simple, that we have what we need and we have each other and I can't hear the devil any more and then Lochlan works his magic and I can't see the devil either and it's a moment I can finally breathe.

Unsavage garden.

Eating Pad Thai in Schuyler's bed, watching Emily in Paris because Daniel offered and I'm not saying no to any of the three offers-their bed, good Thai food and endless feel-good Netflix, and feel-good only. 

Today will not be a sad day, Schuyler proclaimed, remote held high. 

That was yesterday and well, we're still here. This is the very definition of a safe place. There are no ghosts, no frowning allowed and no tears unless we are Working Through Shit and no safe words because these men pay close attention and find no joy whatsoever in hurting people to get off. They also don't throw out sharpened words meant to hurt and they're always up to speed on who in the house needs a little S&D, their very own brand of TLC. 

It involves ones favourite meal, a bunch of happy shows or music, and absolutely no clothing, or clothing optional in winter, as I've been dozing in Ben's big t-shirt all day, as is my habit. I feel almost whole again as neither the ghosts nor the demons can touch me in here.

Told you, Daniel says, and he kisses my nose. Better?

Almost. I yawn again. Schuyler winks at me.

That's it then, we're keeping you for the week.

Build the ark, I'm coming for you.

Ben isn't doing cocaine. He's all about the self-disparaging jokes these days, and yet they take a while. He thinks slower than he used to. The words, the thoughts and plans are all there in his head but his head healed a little thicker than it was before, he says, and so it takes a little longer for everything to come out. 

I always always tease him when he says this, as he has always been thick-headed. Stubborn. Aren't we all. 

And we have have as many bad days as good, here on the point. The barometer is never just for me, though I can be as quiet as they can when things aren't just right. Only I can't fake it along through the hours. I just get more and more wound up, fingers clenched, teeth clenched, miserably tight and miserable indeed and then I explode or I melt, depending on the issue and everyone gets to see everything and I get to keep nothing to myself. 

It's healthier but I hate being the bad guy. 

And so does Ben but Ben is in survival mode. For those who say it's nice to retire before sixty with a catalogue the likes of which he has, for those who say more money is so lovely and that rich people shouldn't complain, for those who do nothing but snark before me from their faceless keyboards, words stabbing my tattooed skin like daggers, drawing endless blood, endless rivers of black and the floods carry us all away, I can only say one thing. 

Fuck you.

8:03/4:31 (we're the worst).

Caleb is at the bedroom door. 

I have something for you, Neamhchiontach. 

Lochlan looks up from his book. We are hibernating today. Having hygge (which is the danish word for fun, if you want to be technical). Clean pajamas, a small fire that we let go out because it got so warm we opened all the windows instead, and breakfast for three, in bed, and I lost a fork and Ben went looking for it which made us all howl with laughter. Then...um...new sheets and more clean pajamas because fork is a similar word to, and sometimes used as, another word that makes sense in the bedroom and then I catnapped and now I'm starving. I have closed the windows because the sun is headed for the cliff of horizon and it's time for another dark cold night and I even checked the sunrise and sunset times and it feels like we aren't getting anywhere here. A few lights on and both boys are now reading. We're unplugged, an acoustic BLB. Off the grid. Well, the lights are electric and so are our hearts but that's it, today. 

What is it? 

He holds out his hand and drops it low. It's a carved lepidolite heart. 

How did you know? 

I was reading up. This one is for restlessness and anxiety. 

Where did you get it? 

I went to a little shop that sells all the crystals. 

Ohhhh and you left me home? 

It was near another store where I was already running errands so I thought I would take a look. 

I love it, it's beautiful. Thank you! 

If you have a list I would like to help you collect them all. 

Like Pokemon? Lochlan calls from inside. 

Hush, you. 

Gotta catch em all, Ben laughs in that slow, infectious drawl he does now. 

Hey man, I read that crystals are taking over the world. Caleb is defensive but light.

I told you! Well, not really but they're so pretty. 

Yes, I like the display in the hall and since you work hard to keep the decorating as woodsy-masculine as you can it's good if you can have something to remind us all that a beautiful woman lives here too. 

I didn't know you cared, Diabhal! Lochlan is in hysterics. 

Shut the fuck up and try harder, Lasraichean, Caleb all but sings it over my head, in through the door. 

And I laugh and hold the cool stone up to my cheek. That was a term of endearment, meaning flame. They're comfort-sparring, today.

Shall I put it with the others? Caleb smiles. So pleased. 

No, I have to cleanse it and then charge it first. 

This is...oddly complicated. 

Not really. They work best when they are cleaned, renewed and charged up with power. 

And how do you do that? 

Either put them in soapy water, sunlight or moonlight and then put them on the white plate with the carvings for a day or two. 

Oh, I see. Then their power is...unleashed? 

I mean, kind of. It's hard to explain. 

Works for me, Lochlan grins, still determined to tease Caleb any chance he gets as he ducks between us. Going to get Chinese food. Need anything else? 

Rain, I call after him. 

Huh? Oh, that day. Ha. You. Lochlan points at me and winks and then he's gone and it's just me, the rock and the devil and a really sleepy Ben nodding off into his pages. 

Thank you again. 

Drink later? 

Maybe tomorrow or the next evening. I have plans tonight.

What rock do I get for loneliness? 

Cocaine, Ben says and he starts laughing again, awake after all.

 It's snowing again. 

*#@%#$&@*!.

매 순간을 치고받아!

Things toasted until they're burnt, martini olives, k-pop and doom metal playlists that alternate between the two, velvet hair ties and Ozark. 

Sam is rapid-fire. Fast. Okay, name the perfect day. 

It's raining like crazy. Lochlan and I wake up, make love, have a long hot bubble bath and then make eggs and toast and coffee. Then we paint for a little while and then go for a walk on the beach, pop into a little restaurant for chinese food. After we get home again we change into dry clothes and watch a movie and then make love again and go to sleep by ten. 

Specific. 

It happens around once every five or six years, just by chance. It's the best day ever. 

I'll make a note of that. I think Matt would be up for it. Sam laughs. Now, a barometre on today. 

I still hate the snow and I'm worn down and I hate this time of year anyway but daylight brings perspective that I don't seem to possess at night hence the drinking, and everything will be okay. 

The drinking. Address this. 

I honestly don't think the three martinis I had this week, spread out across seven days are cause for alarm. 

What would be?

Three a night. 

Definitely. 

Though, having a second is not the end of the world. 

But can you not have any for a week? 

Yes, but I fear the unchecked anxiety will just kill me faster, to be fair. 

To be fair you're not taking your med-

I HATE the side effects. Sam, you know. (Really hard to not full-on whine here but I tried.)

Which is worse?

Side-effects, every time. 

We can keep looking-

I said I was done being a test subject and I meant it, Sam. 

I understand. 

Keep going with the questions, this is fun. 

Favourite song. 

Right this second? The Real by Ateez. 

Hahahahaha that's amazing. 

It's a banger. Just like my life. 

Sam smiles but it's not his practiced, professional smile. It's full-on, with teeth. 

What's happening?

Sam is dissecting my brain in real-time. 

And? 

Sam turns to Lochlan. You're right. It's full of cotton candy and glitter. 

Better than wet clouds, like sometimes. Lochlan smiles back. No teeth though.

Chum deureogayu/춤 들어가유.

George wouldn't let me shovel the sixty million feet of snow we got today so I'm inside spooling up the dance party and making hot chocolate for when everyone is finished and comes back inside. This is oddly one of my favourite things, when there are gloves, hats, jackets and boots flung damn near everywhere, with puddles of snow melting on the floor. 

I hate the snow proper, though, don't get me wrong. It makes me claustrophobic. It's exhausting to get rid of, and it makes it hard to go places, emergency or otherwise and I think fewer people understand that then I would like but that's neither here nor there today and our driveway is completely shoveled. Can't wait until it's fifty percent longer by Easter or whenever the snow is gone and the work begins. 

I want to run though. So bad and the treadmill doesn't cut it. Ben sped it up all the way and then a little more still and I was running flat out and it's just not the same. He put on a video of a jaunt through the mountains of Switzerland and asked if that was better. No, of course not. It will pass. I just need to stay distracted. His eyebrows go up. 

Oh, I can distract you. 

Oh, really? How's that? 

Jump off. I obey his order. No point slowing the machine down and making a graceful exit when one can fly off like a maniac. Someday one of us is going to die playing on this thing and it will probably be me. I already chipped a tooth on it because my timing was off. It's a death trap and it's only good for bad weather or total boredom. It's actually good for nothing, come to think of it. Speed. That's it. 

I did a front walkover over Lochlan's chair last night and misjudged my spatial awareness level for the night and had to be rescued as it were so I'm not really up to running hard anyway. I think I stretched my back and my hamstrings further than they've ever been and now they are adventurers for life. 

I should know better than to be trying acrobatics without a sufficient warm up. Lochlan never ever let me miss the full warmup even if I was still eating dinner. More than once I did stretches with a pizza crust between my teeth, admonishings from Lochlan to put it down or finish it already so I don't choke. I would take my sweet time finishing, just to make him crazy. 

Okay, I'm off. I turn back to laugh at Ben. I stuck the landing, anyway. Now I wait for the distraction. 

Oh, you are the distraction. Wait til they come inside. 

Why? 

Remember that time in the back of the truck? 

Yes. (Oh my God. Found it.)

Thought maybe for old times sake.

You thought for old times sake we should freeze our asses off? 

Yes. Yes I did. He laughs slowly, picking up speed. Just like my run, right out of my mind.

Where can I move where there are still seasons but no weather bombs, domes, tornados, fires, snowstorms or earthquakes?

The snow keeps coming and this just makes my plea for a baby plow/4x4 for yard work that much more interesting. I could just order one but that's no fun. I like it when they do it on my behalf. Hell, not like I'm having much luck this week. I tried to order a custom G wagon for Caleb in robin's egg blue and I got precisely nowhere. I tried to do some taxes and got nowhere. I tried to get motivated and got nowhere. I keep finding the mornings drag and the afternoons rush by and I did buy something today, so there. I ordered a labradorite sphere. I'm hella excited. It looks neat. If all goes well I'll go back for a lepidolite bowl or maybe an agate one or maybe both but that's for another day. Look, a girl has to have something to do when it's snowing this much and there's nowhere to go. 

We're not even going to talk about the necronomicron infection (oh do I mean Omicron? No. Je refuse.) I think at least 4 of us have. 

And we're definitely not going to talk about Schuyler's eyeliner today because some of us might spontaneously combust. Oh my Lord the fire is turned up to seventeen with that one. 

(The fire measurement being the dial on a gas fireplace in my house but whatever, he's making his own fire today.)

I told you there was nothing happening and now I'm going to go make four shepherd's pies.

Arcane, indeed.

Why don't you love who I am?
What we could have been

 

Tuesday is a slow-motion weekday today, the first true day maybe. Ruth came over and we took a long walk around the neighbourhood, Henry and Lochlan hovering just enough on the icier sidewalks but then forging ahead, deep in conversation far out of reach. The rain is heavier now and I'm glad it held off. 

 

Caleb remains behind us. Walking steadily. Not looking up. Ears tuned keenly forward but adding nothing to the conversation. Ruth is stronger than he is and they both know it and so he is charming but guarded now that she has come into her own. The older she gets the more favourites she plays but she also does not forget or look coldly on her time being raised partially by him too. The rest she knows and we just don't talk about it, but she understands I keep no secrets from her or her brother and the tension with Caleb will forever be a tangent presence. 

I'm reading Dave Grohl's biography and I'm struck by how he glosses over major formative aspects of his childhood in order to wax platitudes on the other side and how that's exactly what we all do once we are past the hard parts. It's a coping mechanism and an eroded emotion. It's water under the bridge you burned. It's the way it's done and you just hope to do better with your own children, only they are still attempting to raise me together as a pack and rarely does that work, if ever.

Green light red light (yellow light, blue).

This morning I am back to business, trying to get quotes for the kiln outlet, trying to order Caleb the vehicle I said I thought he should get and he agreed, trying to begin year end tax forms and trying to pull the whole house back together in one day and at some point this morning Lochlan put his hand on the top of my head and told me to spend the week doing Nothing with a capital N because everything is delayed/shut-down/not in a rush anyway. 

Huh. I mean, okay. If I haaaaave toooooooo. I already caught up on all my chores (laundry up to date, living room is cleaned and my art studio is rearranged to be more user-friendly and the floors have been done. All of them. Everything.), no one's answering the phones at the two different electricians I called for quotes, Mercedes told me the chips are scarce and they'll let me know about ordering the vehicle I want for Caleb and did we want to look at their preowned inventory? (no, thank you we can wait or we'll move on) and why would there be tax forms out? It's January fucking third. 

I cough and Lochlan says see? He's mildly concerned. I have a really bad cold suddenly not really I was sick through Christmas and it's worse now) and I have resorted to carrying around my Victorian embroidered handkerchief with a few drops of thieves oil on it or I can't breathe at all here. I'm big on natural remedies because I hate chemicals but I also hate this feeling so I'm counting down the hours until the Nyquil coma. That's the best part of being sick: the five or sick hours of oblivion that stuff affords me. I don't know what's in and I don't know if I care. I just want to feel better so I downloaded a show no one else wants to watch (Emily in Paris, season 2) and I have my afternoon all planned.  

Fun.

Hello red brick road, where Bridget's wolves ceaselessly howl (liberties taken, Mr. John).

About two weeks, possibly three depending on the weather. Caleb has his hands in his pockets and he's hunched his shoulders in close, as if to deflect an imaginary, impending blow. 

When am I going to have some peace and quiet?

When it's perfect. When it's the way you wanted it to be in the first place.

I have to learn to watch what I say. I made a brief squawk about his car being in the wrong place when I went to back out of where I park when I'm going to be going back out because it was too close and I really had to go back and forth for a bit to get past PJ's jeep which is always in the right spot. Both of my jeeps and PJ's Jeep go in front of the garage or in it, plus the little space on the left is mine for when I come and go. Caleb parks beside the side door. Lochlan and Ben park their trucks up along the side nearer the front door and Duncan, Sam, Matt and Daltondrive down past the house to our actual parking lot between the side fence and the Boathouse. Ruth's car is no longer here much at all, she used the little spot on the left too, and Henry is soon to get a vehicle and he'll share that spot so it's a bit tight sometimes. 

Especially since we're all homebodies now who hardly ever leave. 

By choice. 

So when I complained about his car being two feet closer than usual, Caleb called fucking Ransom again and he's having the driveway extended up around so you can cut left or right at the fountain and drive back around and out. I lose a tiny bit of my pointless and very dark front yard. I will not lose a single tree in the woods though and they will redo the little grotto into a proper garden courtyard. I am oddly fine with saying goodbye to the yard and of course they will redo all of the landscaping in order to have it look like it's always been that way and WATCH ME PARK RIGHT AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PORCH STEPS NOW MUHAHAHA. There will be room for their vehicles or delivery vans to drive past me and things will be great. I no longer have to go in the side door unless we are grocery shopping and then I don't drive often anyway. Lochlan does. Or Ben but only if it's clear and bright out which is never anymore.

Plus this will absolutely eliminate the eight treacherous stone steps leading up to the front walkway, to more stairs. 

I am all for that. And it will be paved in the same brick pattern as the rest of the driveway so super luxe and stupidly expensive and I still don't have to pay for any of it. Perfect.

When can they start? Let's get this over with. 

I'll make a call. I want it done before I trade in anyway. 

Oh really? What are you getting next? (The A7 hasn't performed well over the past few weeks, especially in the rain and he's not going to keep it).

Not sure yet. Maybe you can help me choose. 

I would love to do that.Why me, though? Lochlan's the gearhead. 

You're very practical but also fun. 

(Yeah, story of my life).

This is the golden age/I think I'm gonna make it after all.

 Euphoria's goooooone it's time to move ooooonnnnnnn

This is my brain. Flailing wildly between U2's New Year's Day, a plaintive, seminal New Year's song from forty years ago (WHAT THE FUCK) and Switchfoot's New Year's Day, a fun rollicking hooky song that's only seven years old. 

This is normal. This is me. Either sad or crazy and never sure which power to harness and which one to ride out. 

What are you doing?

I yank off my headphones just as ABBA's Happy New Year starts (it's a playlist I made, okay? Here we are, me and you, feeling lost and feeling bluuuuuueeeee). I am disappointed at being interrupted in my epic once-a-year early morning routine where I finish off the final half-bottle of champagne and sing my heart out in the library where no one can hear me. This isn't a performance, it's a ritual.

The static makes my hair do fucked up things and Caleb laughs. 

Ice cream?

It's eight in the morning. I doubt anything is open.  

Maybe I brought a selection home and it's in the freezer. 

I stand up, never taking my eyes off him, putting down my headphones, my phone. Moving slowly.

He moves to make room for me to leave the room and join him. It's a fake-out. I book it to the door and he blocks me and then turns and runs down the hall to the kitchen, grabs a spoon from the drawer and heads out the back door. I am left behind. Winner picks the loser's flavour is the rule. GREAT.  

His resolution was to be kinder to me so he chooses coffee flavour since it's early. I am mollified and content. I have brain-freeze too but no one notices, or maybe no one really cares.

2022. Feels futuristic and apocalyptic (or maybe that's apologetic) all at the same time.

Two weeks ago I called our favourite Indian restaurant and pre-ordered dinner for tonight and we're leaving in ten minutes to pick it all up. I was so apologetic. They were thrilled to do a whole nights business in one transaction or maybe they were horrified. I don't know but they said no problem and here we are. 

All the alu gobi and keema naan a girl could want. Pakoras up the wazoo. PJ will make me a mean gin martini with three fat olives and Lochlan will have a whiskey with ice (that he'll make himself) and we'll resume watching the Get Back documentary on Disney+. 

We roll hard here on the point. 

Happy New Year. I'll write more tomorrow. There wasn't much time to do it today. I did write my resolutions today though. I wrote them across August's arms with a good sharpie. Things like more sleep, less sugar. More calm, less panic. More happy, less sad. 

Here's hoping.

Yesterday was exceedingly difficult and when I woke up I was alone, PJ was in the big chair by the fire and didn't stir when I shook his shoulder. He was out. He looked exhausted and yet when I went to bed everything was fine (fine being relative). My anxiety is far worse at night and Duncan is in charge of the Christmas gift I mentioned the other day and I get a whole bunch of it right before bed and then I'm out like a stone and it's almost funny. I sleep right through but it's only been a couple of nights so we'll see if it holds. No one liked that mention of the gift in particular which is interesting. It is fully legal here and he bought it legally and for the record I did not know what to do with it exactly but he said not to worry so there you go. 

When I went downstairs, Ben is asleep on the big couch in the kitchen. No lights are on. The sweet part is that Lochlan is beside him, one arm threaded all the way through the kangaroo pocket on the front of Ben's hoodie. He used to do that with me when I was a child and he was afraid I would awaken and go somewhere while he slept. I find it sweet that he covered all his bases and sent PJ up to watch me and I find it sweet that I guess Ben fell asleep first and Lochlan didn't want to wake him up to move him. 

There's a rogue whiskey bottle halfway down the big long kitchen table, but it hasn't been opened. The plastic is still around the top.

(It was $15 a week, and that was a fortune at the age of 11.)

Duncan wants to hear a story and so Lochlan always starts with the music. 

Aldo Nova was playing through my speakers and there was a group smoking in one of the cars-

It was Triumph. I interrupt. Dude. I know this one, I think to myself. I'm IN this story. 

Lochlan pauses. I think you're right, Princess. It was Triumph. Lay it on The-

Moonchild, I correct again. Sorry, but if you're trying to set the stage-

It was Moonchild, he laughs. So a cigarette butt lands at my feet and I look up and this group of kids is coming around with lit cigarettes and they're smiling at me like they're daring me to call them out for smoking on the ride and there are two carts full of them and they're all early twenties so I ignore it and just pretend I didn't see it, but then Bridget comes back from getting a hotdog and she brings me one and she hands me the food and marches right out in front of me at the control box and when they come over she yells, HEY! NO SMOKING ON THE WHEEL, ASSHOLES! 

Duncan covers his face. Oh my god. This is so easy to picture. 

Right? And they all look at me and keep right on smoking as they go around again and when they come down again Bridget puts her hands on her hips and yells I SAID, NO SMOKING!

What are you going to do about it, kid? The prettiest girl flicks her hair and smiles at Bridget.

I'M TURNING OFF THE RIDE. GET LOST.  

They all look surprised. Like they wasted their tickets and I shrug even though I'm not even seventeen yet because the lady gets what the lady wants and technically Bridget's right, I just didn't want to deal with people trying to intimidate me. She turns to me and points backwards and says Turn it off, Locket. 

I did as I was told and the group slunk off while Bridget glared at them. It was hilarious. The boss ended up giving her an official title and a weekly stipend because he said she was making sure to keep everyone on their toes. 

Wow that was generous of him. Dalton laughs. 

Not really. He took it out of my cheque. 

I turn around with my mouth open. Wait, what? You said I could spend it any way I wanted. 

And I meant that. 

But that was your money! 

And I clearly didn't do enough to earn it. 

Why didn't you tell me, so I could have bought dinner sometimes?

Like I said, it was yours because you wanted a job like the rest of us and you were so happy to have it. I didn't want to burst that bubble. Things were hard enough after...everything.

The black cloud moves back in over the point, blocking out the sunny warmth of a memory just remembered and enveloping us in a memory that will never ever be forgotten.  

After what? Duncan asks, forgetting it all.

After everything changed, I say softly and Lochlan nods, his eyes black with regret.

I can give you a bunch of details but they're not the ones you want.

I don't know what day it is. I just know that we put Christmas away today, I had my fourth brunch in two weeks, I never did find the spirit and I am solidly a DC girl, as opposed to Marvel, after seeing the new Batman trailer. My knuckle cracked and bled from the cold and then my nose started bleeding just as someone handed me a gin martini with three olives just now and well, here we are. Have I covered everything?

No? 

I saw five accidents on my way out and home today. I wasn't in any of them, thank God. There's only one spot in the neighbourhood where I can kick out the ass end of the Jeep and slide just enough for a thimbleful of thrills. Perfect. People with all-seasons need to stay the fuck home though.

I watched Don't Look Up on Netflix. This is exactly how it ends.

I got a whole pottery studio for Christmas. Yes, I'm going to go pro, apparently. But they ran out of time and the electrician is all that's left to change the plug for my kiln (also a gift) to make sure I don't burn down the point. This is not in the stables, this is a tiny shed all the way out by the orchard. The kiln and the wheel and my dry supplies will live out there. The clay must come in to be warmer so that will be stored in the stables instead and someone will bring me what I need when I need it. Glazes too, probably. Better safe than sorry and since I'm a newb and hardly know what I'm doing it's the plan as I learn more. I can make a mean cup via slab. Slabs are everything, I haven't thrown in years. Should be a fun time but I'm hoping to enjoy a good solid learning curve and then begin making things for other people 

I also got an ounce of really nice weed and my shoulder blades are marshmallows and my brain sponge toffee tonight. 

Goes well with this ice cold gin martini with three olives. I didn't get any actual medication over Christmas (because they suddenly decided it was cruel) so this is the way to go. Otherwise my default is someone who's skin has been peeled off and they've been left in a salt mine. The anxiety is always completely off the charts and that's the only way I can describe it anymore.

Right. Horrifying, isn't it? I don't know if that's Jake's fault or Caleb's. I don't know if I care. Caleb gave me the prettiest pair of diamond earrings and said they looked really good on me when I wasn't wearing anything else and Ben agreed but promised not to eat them. There were no teeth at all to be found and on Boxing day Lochlan let Daniel cut off all of his hair. Daniel handed me a curl and I thanked him and Lochlan asked why I wanted it. 

A keepsake, I promised. 

Voodoo, he worried.

Never on you. I said it softly and he smiled and pulled me in as I put my hands up to ruffle his short half-curls. His hair is so shiny. I'm jealous. 

Oh my God, you're so fucked. 

Only a little. 

Maybe always though. 

I nod and show him my teeth in a goofy smile and he laughs out loud. 

Long week, Peanut. 

The longest, I agree. We entertained Caleb with our magic and he fired back with his intensity and generosity. We worked. We rested. We celebrated. We had our big dinner, rescheduled due to weather and we made a loose plan for the new year. The only thing left is to write our resolutions for Friday night and count the remaining bottles of champagne. 

Also I need to order a case of soap from the rocky mountain soap company. It really is my favourite and I learned that after buying a ten dollar pretty bar of cold pressed soap at a gift shop only to find out it gave me a rash and had no smell at all. 

Live and learn. Hahaha. That's all I ever do now. 

(Totally doing voodoo, by the way.)

Spirits.

Hope is a feather plucked from a capable wing, now suddenly captive in the breeze. The sand is ice-cold underneath a fresh layer of new fallen snow and the gifts remain wrapped and under the tree as Sam and I pack up our coffees, tie into our most capable snow boots and warm coats and head down to greet the sun on this Christmas morning, Sam half-ruined with joy already and me half-awake as ever but somehow we made it and I got to bear witness to a monologue the likes of which the church never sees but should. The sun warmed our faces while his words warmed my heart and I am reminded of why I refused to follow Jacob into the abyss of nothing. There's no heaven. All of this is it and you better not squander this chance at it because it's on earth. It's now, not after. It's Christmas every day if you want it to be. 

Merry Christmas to all of my readers. Even the ones who hate my guts. Jesus loves you no matter what disdain you have for me and no matter what thoughts go through my head any minute of any hour. He loves me even as my hands touch upon someone I shouldn't and even as I foolishly wish for things long lost, even on His birthday.

A kiss lands on top of my head as I look out at the snow crunching up the top layer of the sea in a rush to hush it all down into a magical holiday scene. I look up and Lochlan is looking down at me, his face cracking into a smile. 

Merry Christmas, Peanut. 

I turn and there's an army of men, carrying a fully lit Christmas tree. They set it up on the beach, back far enough to stay out of reach of the tides, but far enough out to make everyone gasp and then smile if they see it.  Someone has a picnic basket and they begin to pass out juice boxes, croissants and more coffee thermoses. Wreathes are hung along the posts all around the dock and music begins to lilt out from a speaker someone has. Just soft enough for magic and just loud enough for me to hear. 

But then they all start to sing. 

It's the best sound I ever heard and the tears are freezing on my cheeks, mixed with snow. 

When the song is finished everyone eats their waterside breakfast, sitting on the dock and then Lochlan pulls me into his coat. A kiss lands on my nose and my glasses steam up.

Merry Christmas, Locket. I love my present. Wow. This is incredible. 

His eyebrows go up. This isn't your present. 

But you've spent hours off rehearsing

Actually that song wasn't part of the plan this morning so we weren't practicing, but also that isn't your present. You'll get that this afternoon, because we're still not finished it.

Yeah, I can't do this. Please send help.

Hahahaha. The houses are full. There is nowhere I can go to get away. Lay in the bathtub for an hour with my headphones (Ben gifted me with my own set of really ridiculously good headphones) listening to sad songs and drinking champagne and I think I'm almost ready to start the day but honestly not quite. Making dinner for twenty-nine today. Don't have any reserves for patience left. Losing it so slowly I'm like a balloon that gets those tiny puckers all around the edges and you know it's not long for the world.

And you wrote to me and said you wished you were me. 

That was dumb. Hope you've changed your mind.

You're the ocean. I'm the pond.

The concert of the century continues as I get up at six am sharp, open all the doors save for Henry's wing and blast them with my renditions of all of my favourite love songs, lyrics changed. Raise a showgirl, expect a performance, I say. 

(Raise a freak, expect a freakshow.)

Guess there is something, and there is nothing
There is nothing in between
And in my eyes, there is a tiny dancer
Watching over me, she's singing
 I'm a I'm a lady, and you are just a boy
She's singing I'm a I'm a lady, and you are just a line without a hook

Lochlan comes down and closes the cover on the keys. On my fingers. Enough. 

You're enough. 

I hoped I would be, at one point. 

And now?

Now I don't know anymore. 

You invited him for Saturday. I would have been fine until Ostara. 

Right. 

You don't know me. 

I do though. Better than I know myself. 

If that were true-

Oh, please, go on. 

You would know that yesterday's projections were off the mark. 

Prove it. 

Trying my best. 

He stands his ground and waits. I pick up my phone and send a one-line text. 

Saturday's off. 

The reply comes in seconds. Tell him to stop being so paranoid. Lochlan, stop being so paranoid.

I hold the phone out, the bitter twisted smile forming a portrait background, our blurred scenery making it so hard to focus anymore it's almost criminal. 

Told you, I say victoriously as his face crumples into tears of relief. Now stop trying to ruin Christmas.

Longest night indeed.

Things not what they used to be
Missing one inside of me
Deathly loss, this can't be real
I cannot stand this hell I feel
Emptiness is filling me
To the point of agony
Growing darkness, taking dawn
I was me, but now he's gone

 We had to bail on the beach part as the freezing rain began at five sharp and Ben almost wiped out and that was that for those treacherous stairs because he takes his sweet time now and had that been PJ or Duncan charging down at full speed we'd be pallbearers today, every one of us. 

We took the party to Schuyler and Daniel's house and sang and played and ate until far past my bedtime and I yawned at last and by this time the whole point was encased in ice and everyone was leaving and so Lochlan and I clutched each other's hands and were the last out the door, dragging each other down the slick path to home. It took us an almost comically-sad moment to get up the steps to the patio doors which were locked and so we had to wait in the icy rain, calling Ben and then Dalton and finally Henry who came and opened the door and pulled us in. He went back to his rooms and we went upstairs after getting orange juice and oreos and we were only a bit drunk, not the maudlin stage yet but slightly past silly so just serious enough to do what we do best. 

Fight. 

It was quiet and heartbreaking though, because a drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts and so when Lochlan grabbed my by the shoulders he gave a good soft shake and waited until I could focus on him.

You didn't even look at him. Didn't leave my side. You stayed put and I'm proud of you. 

My eyebrows go up and I set my teeth together, tongue in the middle, cracked in half. 

What's the look for?

 

I can look at him. 

 

And I can still kill him. I open my teeth in horror. Lochlan might be mean and sometimes he gets a little too jealous but this isn't hyperbole. 

 

Stop it. Locket. Please. 

 

Imagine-

 

I need to sleep and you need to stop talking. 

 

What if we had what we used to have? What if you still loved me the most?

I DO.

Little liar.

 

I'm not.

 

And this morning, well, you should hear my acoustic piano arrangement of Fade to Black. I don't know which one of them hates it most but I hope it's Lochlan.

The start of winter.

I'm not getting up yet today. I'm lying in bed with a roaring fire going, playing A Good Snowman Is Hard to Build (the latest ios craze in this house even though I haven't even remoted finished decorating my village in Christmas Puzzle 3 and all of the townspeople are going to HATE me) and waiting for Lochlan to bring up breakfast in bed. My coffee is late. My head hurts. I've thrown my phone twice across the room and then went and got it because Dalton finished the game last night and I can't even solve the first level yet but I'm determined. In any case Lochlan offered to make omelettes and coffee since he kept me up half the night to watch The Witcher's second season which was so so good (Jaskier's monologues and songs. What a ride.) and I fought to stay awake. I am tired now because I go to bed at nine each night and then I actually sleep from two to six. 

But that is not important. This is.

Tonight we're having our solstice dinner on the beach, complete with dress code (interpretive dark victorian/gothic formal) with sparkling virgin cider made here on the point. The menu is pot roast, root vegetables (grown here) and dumplings, apple pie and then I have sparklers and streamers for dancing after dinner. My windproof candles are ready and the boxes are beginning to be lined up near the patio doors as it will take the rest of the day to cook and set up but it's so worth it. Especially if it rains. I am excited but I still need a little more rest first, as it's the shortest day of the year and already it's packed to the stars.

Afterwrath.

I have my nose pressed up against the glass, money in my hand. I didn't want to put wagers on my soul but here we are, PJ, Ben and I, watching Lochlan and Caleb duke it out in the snow in the front yard. Only Caleb isn't fighting back at all. The wind is gone out of his sails, or maybe hurting Ben is what finally changed him. Maybe this is his penance, though I pointed out to Lochlan that none of this was Caleb's fault and he almost believed me until he found the carefully hidden bite mark on the back of my neck, almost in my hair, that wouldn't have broken the skin but it did. 

Now it's his fault, apparently, because he can't seem to not mash his teeth all over me, or maybe I'm just that delicious. Either way, there they are. Lochlan's lost all of his steam from shouting and is now swinging for the hills, but Ben remains with one hand on the door, ready to go out and break it up if anyone is about to get seriously hurt. Including Caleb. 

PJ just wants to wager, as he knows damn well Caleb wouldn't hurt Lochlan. He wouldn't dare. The fifty bill is just to see who stops first and it's only a valid bet if they aren't stopped by a third party first. I bet Caleb would stop first only because I know Lochlan as well as I do. 

And I was right. Now I'm fifty dollars richer, my nose is cold and pink and I told Lochlan to stop hitting people. 

I will when you stop fucking them, he said. 

NICE. I spat back.

I was out in the cold doing something NICE for YOU, he yells. 

I DON'T NEED NICE. I NEED PRESENCE. 

Right. PRESENTS. 

No, PRESENCE. 

What the FUCK, Peanut?

This would be better written down and then you'd see. 

Go write it then. Humiliate me some more. 

But then he winked and I don't even know which end is up and if you make me a bluff I'm going to call it so here we are. Immature Christmas 2021. Nothing has ever changed and nothing ever will. Also I think I need stitches. Oh and he invited Caleb for Boxing night.

Give my loaded gun away.

I was playing piano. House is virtually empty, as every handy-hand on deck is currently out working on my Christmas surprise and I'm about to be on Santa's naughty list as the Devil's warm hand slides around my throat. I hit a series of dramatic chords and he lifts my face up. Leaning over the piano bench from behind he kisses my mouth upside-down with a chuckle at my choice of musical accompaniment. 

It's cool down here. Come up to my room and have a drink with me by the fire. 

(Don't panic. Most of the dens in the various wings of the house have natural gas fired fireplaces. They are small but cozy and built into the big built-in bookcases.)

(Oh, you weren't panicking about that part. My bad.)

He pushes his index finger between my lips and I taste the sweet burn of the whiskey he just dipped into. 

The low pop-thrumb of the flame igniting distracts me ever so briefly and the hesitation lobs doubt into the atmosphere between us. 

My apologies, Neamhchiontach. Old habits. His face. Oh Jesus he looks completely defeated in a whole new way that I never get to see and I know it's bald-faced manipulation and I let it run unchecked. After all, 

It's Christmas. 

I nod and stand up and he holds out his hand, glass in the other. We go upstairs and down the long hall to his door and then inside. He closes but does not lock the door behind us. Once inside the fire grows before my eyes and he turns to pour my drink while I take off my earrings, leaving them in the little dish on the shelf. They were past their time to remove as it was but I got distracted when everyone headed out. No car keys or wallets so the surprise is home-based, at least. 

He holds out my glass and clinks his against it. 

Salut, he says with a smile that's gone in a flash. 

Sláinte, I reply, taking a sip. Aw, it's my dearest Lagavulin and I can lick those gravestones to my heart's content. 

No, he says abruplty to no one in particular and he rips the glass out of my hand, pulling me up with him. He pulls my face to his in a long, violent kiss and I am walked backwards down the hall to his bedroom, clothes being unbuttoned and left along the way. I am turned and shoved facedown on the blankets and his full weight keeps me there.

Christ, Cale. His hand covers my mouth. I squandered my brief shot at mercy like a goddamn newbie and now it's gone and while Caleb takes what he wants I go to the fair instead. His Christmas lights are the midway decorations to bring the village down at night and his onslaught fades into the background as I whip around the Ferris Wheel, my hair pulling against my backpack, where it was tucked inside the straps. 

Oh, I think I might black out here. I turn to look at Lochlan in the cart beside me but he's gone and I hope he didn't fall out and then I am turned and the hand leaves my face. I take a huge gasp of air and Caleb stands up and is gone. 

Another three minutes and the outer door of his wing closes. And he's gone. I get up shakily and walk down the hall, collecting my dress, my sweater. My tights. The bobby pins that I can find. I put my earrings back on and I put my glass in his bar sink. I dress as fast as I can and run out the door. He is sitting outside on floor outside the door, drinking his whiskey, staring at the wall. 

You know, when you were young I decided I never wanted to try and have the level of responsibility that Lochlan has for you and I never wanted to get married until you needed someone there to take care of you and the good news is that I think I'm back to the former because the latter would be nothing but heartache. 

That's our currency, Diabhal. 

Indeed, Neamhchiontach. 

Does that mean I can go?

You know the drill, Dollface. Run before I try and keep you nonetheless.

He said he was re-adventing himself. Har.

It's just freezing and pouring down sheets of rain today and I love it. We were supposed to get all snow but that's only up at highway levels. Down here on the water it is miserable and glorious all at once. Sam is doing tomorrow and then he's off on sabbatical at last. 

Just a few months. He needs the rest. This pandemic and all of the changes it brought has worn on Sam and he's taking a rest break. He wants to go back renewed and reenergized, not perpetually beaten down with zooms and streams and phone calls and front porch baptisms and field weddings where everyone has to shout and delayed funerals and bullshit orders. It was submitted forever ago. It was approved this morning and he called to tell me from across the driveway and broke down in tears on the phone. 

So I went over and crawled in between them and hung on tight. The feeling is so familiar. The soul is so new.

Eight legs to chase you.

It's hard to believe Christmas is a week from today. Or, Christmas Eve, as that's when we're having our big dinner. I'm excited. I'm thrilled to have a full table this year. All hands on deck. All boats ashore, as it were, since we're bringing the tables in to set up that we use when we have dinner out in the orchard, and every time we talk about it PJ says Spiders! in his Pennywise voice and I laugh but then I wonder. I had a small stepladder outside to help me reach the hanging plants that were too far from the hose to water and when I brought it in for winter to store in the back closet, there was a large crunchy wolf spider chilling under the top step. Where I usually put my other hand. 

I told the spider he was in the right place because this is definitely the wolf den. 

We're not going to talk about why I had no post yesterday. Let's just say it was a very bad day but also I changed my lights on my tiny Jeep to all LED and I made plans to someday fix my defrost when it's warm again. I also dropped a screw. Right in front of the Jeep on the driveway with it's giant grooves for the brickwork and dried leaves stuck to the clay. I couldn't see for shit so Dalton brought out the metal detector and he found it and all was well. I didn't want a screw stuck in a tire this time of year when we tend to go out only when we need to and hardly ever when the weather is bad. Not because we can't but because everyone else insists on trying to get places with summer tires up on the highway and it just isn't worth the stress or the risk. 

Besides. Who would want to leave? The tiny lights are always on, the trees are lit, music plays through the common parts of the house but not in the quiet zones, and we are warm and safe. Ruth comes over to draw, Henry stretches out with his phone and the dog, Duncan is usually sprawled in a chair reading his poetry. Ben stands by the Keurig, sipping his ever-present coffee, lost in thought. Outside the red-haired magician does tricks that leave you gasping, with an audience of no one. I stand nearby, at the ready in case he goes up in flames and I know I'll be (and I have been) burned, but I don't care. I can't take my eyes off him, even as the only time he looks at me is to make sure we're following fire protocol and I'm hoping by Christmas he is speaking to me again or I'll have to turn the spiders on him. 

(Update: he came in laughing because I was singing Line without a Hook at the top of my lungs again. I got a kiss on the head and he asked if I was ready to apologize for yelling at him in my frustration. Of course not, don't be silly. I'll die on this hill, at long last. The largest, scariest wolf waits in the wings to see how it all turns out.)

Back to Blinding Lights on the piano because someone (name starts with L) turned off the wi-fi and it came on promptly at eight. Which is too late, mostly for me to get my writing done (not just here, Jesus) and I walked into the server room at seven, looked around, checked the modem which was flashing and couldn't figure out the power cord or anything and had to leave it in case I screwed up something else (told many times: Don't. Touch. Anything.) but took a moment to appreciate how all the cords are ziptied in organized groups and I had a sudden fleeting thought that I should just burn the whole house down and walk up the road but then I remembered my steps. It's a first world problem. I should just swallow my feelings and distract myself. Everything that is unhealthy for us as humans is conveniently also what keeps us comfortable and most importantly, I'm not going to let him win with an irrational reaction because sometimes saving the day makes him happier than anything in the world. So that's out because I can deny him shit too.

Give me 80L or give me..uh...not death. A 4xe Jeep. Yes. give me one of those.

No, that white vehicle in the picture is not ours. I was just trying to get a shot to show you my favourite place but traffic was coming and we had to go anyway so I'm sorry I didn't frame some sort of aesthetic viewport for you. You can look up the restaurant yourself. I'm sure there are better pictures of it online. I told you I wasn't a photographer and I always tell the truth. 

Still dreaming about lunch though. I would do that every day but for the fact that we only venture out when everyone else stays home. 

Gas restrictions are ending today, however and I'm grateful for that too, Sam. Measuring out thimblesful of fuel for the big trucks is tough and a full tank brings me a huge measure of peace of mind that I can't afford to have restricted. 

My Jeep is on half and I hate it. It's snowing all week. I want a lot of gas. I won't go anywhere in it. Caleb wants to zoom around in his pretty new A7 with me instead. That car is sexy but I bet it doesn't handle as well as mine in the snow. 

I bet it does. 

Delusional millionaires. I roll my eyes. They think money can buy everything from happiness to pavement traction. Holy Christ. 

In any case I am brining chicken thighs for dinner. I make a mean honey-mustard one-pan dish that everyone destroys in seconds and I don't have to do anything major to pull it off so my card finally got pulled. Today we're just going to go fuel up and then stay home and...fuel up. 

(Can you tell we have houseguests? Yes you can tell. I have no time to myself to write. I don't mind though. It's a nice change.)

우린 뜨겁게 살아

Ventured out in actual public for the first time in a thousand years. Lochlan asked what I wanted to do and of course it's an easy answer. Hit a different beach and go to my favourite restaurant. Which also happens to be the ONLY restaurant in the village where you can get a good meal and spend an hour before getting on or after getting off a ferry from the island. 

So I rarely get to go because it's really busy and I don't like people. But yesterday the stars aligned, no one was taking ferries due to the threat of cancellations from high wind and snow and we were able to have a leisurely lunch there, with prolonged, multiple coffee refills and everything. 

I told you I wasn't pretentious, and I'm also a sucker for thick white unbreakable restaurant dishes and any menu that features both an all day breakfast and a really good club sandwich. 

And a wine list. That I gave back because I was already hungover. Ha. Too much dancing to k-pop with Daniel and Lochlan all weekend. Jesus I am too old for that now. 

In pajamas now with a glass of white wine so it's okay.

I don't know if we're going to talk about snowplow blade markers or why they're so expensive or who might be the one who needs them since even with two booster seats she can't see where her fenders end but perhaps I should look into figuring out how to make my own out of pipe cleaners or something.

Daniel laughs in tall. I am tagging along with them while they Christmas-shop, get good barber-cuts and close hot-towel shaves and concurrent manicures and we did lunch too. I am overheated, thirsty and unable to keep up. I guess it's like taking out a small child. They have a lot of energy, aren't having hot flashes and also spend thoughtfully on gifts. They stop often for coffee or for fresh-pressed juice. They will stroll along looking in windows and talking with salespeople. They sing along with carols in stores. 

I found some of the Christmas music a little heavy. Not sure I want to be looking at bespoke chocolate while listening to Greensleeves. Wish I had a bottle of water. If I had known they'd be out all day I might have stayed home but I also don't complain. I took off my coat, stole an ice cube straight out of Schuyler's juice with unwashed fingers and went and sat on a quiet bench a little out of the way for a bit. I texted Lochlan who thought I was funny and probably just improperly dressed (because I tend to overheat so easily you can set your watch by it. He said as soon as I get home I can change and then we'll make some drinks and watch movies tonight. He talked me into rejoining the boys just as they were finishing with their Christmas haircuts and we finished up shopping at the bookstore.

When we got home it took two trips to load their purchases into their front hallway and only one for me. I bought an ornament and an outfit for Henry. I have everything else I need. 

Everyone is so sad and disappointed that I didn't get any spa services or a haircut or anything for myself but merely withstood and endured. I don't know. I'm not a shopper. I did enjoy spending a day in the presence of Savage Garden while also fully clothed. That hardly EVER happens so lets just call it a win.

Per Sam's request.

I am grateful for:

Found not-stale hot chocolate and seasoned wood piles, new-vinyl record smell and cracking a fresh bottle of perfume, a surprise brandy given without expectation of company. Woolen legwarmers and cheesy Christmas movies, cheeseburgers and everyone jumping back on the Pokemon Go bandwagon with me while I attempt to finish the game (they say it isn't finishable but I choose not to believe that). being on the last fifteen pages of Billy Summers and really enjoying it even as I waited for the horror that never came. Men in 2021 getting cancelled for shit they thought they'd gotten away with (Caleb notwithstanding. Did he get away with it? Maybe, maybe not. Depends on who you ask or what day it is.), and women being strong. The health of my children and my boys. Nachos. Bad fountain pop from fast-food drive-throughs and well-fitting masks. Finding a hair elastic when I need one most, because my hair is that fun stage, just past my chin where it's not heavy enough to stay tucked behind my ears but I can make a Rescuers Pennyesque ponytail that sticks straight out. The hearing I have left. A whole host of good series just begun. The new tires in my possession tomorrow replacing what I didn't know was old and unsafe. Grateful for means and generosity always. Grateful for the daylight that filters through the giant windows facing the ocean and for the perpetual dimness in the front forest, toadstools included. For the imagination to travel when under duress and the weightlessness to be easy to restore. For the support and the love, affection and outright sick enjoyment of feeling wanted all the time. For all of it. Every last thing from the unbent forks we still use daily for pie to the extra-long generic phone cord that sometimes works and sometimes doesn't so I can sit up and surf my phone while both boys sleep with me as the meat to their bread sandwich. For cheques I can write with money gifted by a friend who really did say he wouldn't add to the heat and he stood by that oath and for new k-pop videos that make the kids dance even as they talk cars and careers in the front hall when Ruth stopped by on her way somewhere this morning. 

I don't take a thing for granted. Not a one. You know this.

We are struggling along today. Got a little bad but not truly unexpected bad news. Was a long one. Am I relieved? Not really but kind of. Is life fair? Never, ever, ever. Do we soldier on?

Of course.

AM BEING FESTIVE COME BACK LATER.

I was expressly forbidden to go outside this morning unless I wore a helmet. 

Hilarious, guys. 

The boys were doing some tree-limbing/trimming/chopping. Usually my job is to cut up the smaller branches and then stack them in a neat pile and we use them (don't laugh) to make sculptures for hanging lanterns, boardwalks on the beach, even Blair-witch style warning sigils for the woods on the point. A huge pile goes in the dry port for future woodstove/fireplace use and Lochlan burns the rest in the bonfire. I used to be allowed to wield the little electric chainsaw but not this winter. Nope. I was relegated to the racheting garden shears, using my left hand.. At least they're sharpened so it was easy work but also dumb. While I was out there I cut back the barnsley and the phlox that I forgot to do in October and completely ignored the wall of lemon balm that's encroaching on everyone and everything.

It's all done and I came inside while they cleaned the gutters (again. Trees. Gah.) and washed up and pulled a warm sweater on over my clothes and made a hot chocolate. I plugged in all of the Christmas trees and turned on all the lights and fired up Ali & Theo on the stereo. 

Duncan comes in, face twisted in amusement. Whatcha doing, Bridge? 

Getting ready for a long winter, same as you all, I said. I really hate that it gets dark at like lunchtime now so my solution is to turn on every light in the house.

Dear Santa.

(I saw him yesterday. I wasn't ready even though Ben tried to drag me over. I couldn't.)

When I woke up the Christmas spirit was already here some how. The music seemed to fit better without being harsh and intrusive. The lights glowed with a brighter hue, the snow is quickly receding and I've come to peace on a lot of issues as of late. My anxiety though, remains through the roof and I don't know if I could fix it. I've dallied with becoming a quiet alcoholic. A functional drug user. I've tried shutting down and opening up. I've distracted and focused too. I've ranged far and wide looking for solutions. Even the woo-woo ones.  I buy crystals. I've had Reiki, acupuncture, cupping and IVs of vitamins. I've danced in the salt at Burning Man and had a candlelit dinner for two at the Eiffel tower. I've cried in the ocean and screamed into the void. I've howled at the moon and I've spent hours and thousands on talk therapy. I've had my brain zapped. I tried Lithium once. 

I went away. Three times. 

I think maybe anxiety is my spirit animal now since Matthew Good got cancelled a while ago. I still think he's a genius songwriter, just maybe not the greatest person. 

Who among us is though? 

I'm probably the worst of all. I cast no fucking stones ever. I'll forgive fully-realized monsters because that's what we're supposed to do and all we can acknowledge is our own faults at the end of the day and try and change. 

This one thing though, I can't change. 

Maybe Santa can bring me some courage that sticks. That's what I would like this year.

Fourteen beams of light.

I'm having a productive day. Changed my own oil and filters. Did an inspection on my (little, old, not the new one) Jeep and ordered new tires for it since the ones on it are from uhhhhfar too long ago. Made a date to pick them up and have the old ones swapped off the rims. Regretted nothing. 

Bought a dress. 

Read that it's the thirty-second anniversary of the Montreal Massacre. That's a very long time. I still mark it though, every year. 

Bought groceries. It was snowing. We were up at five, geeking out. We headed out before seven and figured we would just get things done today. 

We wolfed down coffee and croissants. And fried potatoes too. 

We did not shovel anything except the dog ramp and Duncan's steps. And now we're making supper. French Dips and fries. Yum.

Jesus Ice Patch.

I may have curled the dog out the patio door, down his little ramp and into the soft grass. I'm not going to score any points on my end and the dog was rightly offended but we lived to tell the tale and he is back inside now, under the big beautifully- and constantly-lit Christmas tree in the great room. He lives for having a tree in the house but he's never mistaken it for one he can use. 

The house is still quiet this morning. Lochlan's working on his guitar lessons (he's playing Fly At Night. He plays, I sing and change all of the lyrics until he laughs. He says I am detrimental. He means to his practice. I think in general.)

I am mainlining the Butterscotch coffee he found for me. I drink it black but I like the smell and the bittersweet aftertaste. 

This song is the radio twin to Fleetwood Mac's Say You Love Me and I might be right as they're only three years apart but both were out and established by the time I moved to Campbell and that's where this all started.

Fleeced.

It snowed this morning. Not enough to leave anything on the pavement but the gardens were covered for a few hours and there's touches of it here and there. 

Wow. And it's only like November. So early this year. 

Lochlan stares at me. It's December fourth. 

No it isn't. But the trees are up. The lights are on, the presents are sent, wrapped and planned otherwise and the turkeys are in the freezers. I've been ready for weeks now. Also these drugs make it so the days run together and I have to concentrate way too hard on the numbers and days of the week specifically and that's WAY too much work so I don't bother. 

Lochlan is wearing his warmest hoodie. It's got soot marks on the cuffs and a little on the hood. That won't come out. He has his hair tied back with one of my velvet elastics. We've made a pact not to cut our hair until 2025. Just for fun. His hair grows lightening-fast. Mine is slow but I currently have the tiniest baby ponytail that ever was and if I move it will probably all fall out. But I also chopped mine last year. He only comes along every five or six years and buzzes his hair short and then just starts all over again. 

I also have one one of his ancient warm hoodies on. That's tradition. Mine doesn't have soot marks but it does have tearing along the seams of the hood and the arms from where he's pulled me in/back/over/around something and tested his faith on fabric instead of anything less tangible.