I'm so very clever.
Everyone's waiting for me to talk about things I won't talk about yet.
Like Jacob's reaction to running into Caleb here, when we didn't know he was here. Like Loch's damage control from a thousand miles away. Like Claus' master plan for me and Jacob's refusal to comply, and their attempts to one up each other with radical ideas. Like my dates circled on the calendar that spark fear instead of triumph, as if it never mattered how far I have come. Like how no one listens to the frail one anymore, they just wait, and then decide on their own.
Like being surrounded by people but I am behind glass. They're all there, I can see them.
I just can't reach them.
I can't hear them.
Thursday 25 January 2007
Apocalypse cupcakes.
There's something fundamentally disastrous about elementary schools and bake sales.
Jacob offered to help Ruthie bake cupcakes for the sale to raise money for a class field trip. Neither one bakes much but both are fiercely independent and heavily resistant to supervision. And so Henry and I went to the library and left Ruth and Jake home to do some hardcore baking. They had some mixes and all the tools required. It sounds simple, right?
We returned two hours later to find them on the phone with Jacob's mom, in preparations to start over again. The kitchen was trashed, just about every bowl and spoon used, batter on the walls, floor and ceiling. And on the table, cooling, the fruits of their labours: giant-sized mutant cupcakes that were black on the outside and still liquid in the middle.
I couldn't do a thing but stand in the doorway and laugh and laugh. Their reasonings were priceless. Bigger cupcakes will fetch higher prices, and to speed up the baking process, if the oven is hotter everything bakes faster.
Henry said they were volcanoes, black mountains that spew hot lava. That sent us into fresh peals of laughter. It took forever to calm down but finally we stopped and cleaned up the mess and went out for more supplies and then I showed them tricks like turning off the beaters before lifting them out of the bowl, and using a broom straw to test for doneness.
The cupcakes were a huge hit yesterday at school, and Ruth was able to contribute $25 to the trip. She sold out.
When asked if she was willing to make cupcakes again for a future fundraiser, she respectfully declined and asked if she could sell chocolate bars instead, or maybe even just pay cash.
Jacob offered to help Ruthie bake cupcakes for the sale to raise money for a class field trip. Neither one bakes much but both are fiercely independent and heavily resistant to supervision. And so Henry and I went to the library and left Ruth and Jake home to do some hardcore baking. They had some mixes and all the tools required. It sounds simple, right?
We returned two hours later to find them on the phone with Jacob's mom, in preparations to start over again. The kitchen was trashed, just about every bowl and spoon used, batter on the walls, floor and ceiling. And on the table, cooling, the fruits of their labours: giant-sized mutant cupcakes that were black on the outside and still liquid in the middle.
I couldn't do a thing but stand in the doorway and laugh and laugh. Their reasonings were priceless. Bigger cupcakes will fetch higher prices, and to speed up the baking process, if the oven is hotter everything bakes faster.
Henry said they were volcanoes, black mountains that spew hot lava. That sent us into fresh peals of laughter. It took forever to calm down but finally we stopped and cleaned up the mess and went out for more supplies and then I showed them tricks like turning off the beaters before lifting them out of the bowl, and using a broom straw to test for doneness.
The cupcakes were a huge hit yesterday at school, and Ruth was able to contribute $25 to the trip. She sold out.
When asked if she was willing to make cupcakes again for a future fundraiser, she respectfully declined and asked if she could sell chocolate bars instead, or maybe even just pay cash.
Wednesday 24 January 2007
Tropic of Bridget.
Butterfly decal, rear-view mirror, dogging the scene...
The song is still there. Jacob keeps saying,
Thank the Lord it isn't Everybody Hurts.
Oh, but sometimes it is and I'm not allowed to listen to that song. I've been down that road before. And today is fine and I bailed on you to go and sit in Chapters instead with my brand new Henry Miller because the old one fell into the bathtub and swelled up so awfully I could no longer turn the pages. Yes, Tropic of Cancer. Where do you think Henry got his name? Fine, I lied. I named him after a candy bar.
I sat and people-watched and drank caffe mochas and pretended I was fine.
The song is still there. Jacob keeps saying,
Thank the Lord it isn't Everybody Hurts.
Oh, but sometimes it is and I'm not allowed to listen to that song. I've been down that road before. And today is fine and I bailed on you to go and sit in Chapters instead with my brand new Henry Miller because the old one fell into the bathtub and swelled up so awfully I could no longer turn the pages. Yes, Tropic of Cancer. Where do you think Henry got his name? Fine, I lied. I named him after a candy bar.
I sat and people-watched and drank caffe mochas and pretended I was fine.
Tuesday 23 January 2007
Violent green.
As usual, my email address is in my profile, please feel free to say hello.
It's an REM day, for those seeking Bridget's barometer.
Every whisper
Of every waking hour
I'm choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool
Oh no I've said too much
I set it up
I'm in a holding pattern. One of those wonderful and bittersweet life times that Jacob holds his breath right through. This time of the year is incredibly difficult for me as it is, but I'm not going to talk about anything bad today. I am going back to see Claus. He was the best of the bunch and didn't try to pulverize me with emotional bombshells every day and so I happily pop the pills and I'll see him later on today. He told me to bring all the pills and my writing and an open mind. And he said Jacob was not invited.
Follow me, don't follow me
I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush
Casual poetry has become a new lust. Reading, not writing it. Are you mad?
And weirdly I am still waking up with What's the Frequency, Kenneth? in my head, every single day. It's been months now. Maybe if I listen to In Time for a million revolutions it just might leave me alone.
Or maybe it won't.
It's an REM day, for those seeking Bridget's barometer.
Every whisper
Of every waking hour
I'm choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool
Oh no I've said too much
I set it up
I'm in a holding pattern. One of those wonderful and bittersweet life times that Jacob holds his breath right through. This time of the year is incredibly difficult for me as it is, but I'm not going to talk about anything bad today. I am going back to see Claus. He was the best of the bunch and didn't try to pulverize me with emotional bombshells every day and so I happily pop the pills and I'll see him later on today. He told me to bring all the pills and my writing and an open mind. And he said Jacob was not invited.
Follow me, don't follow me
I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush
Casual poetry has become a new lust. Reading, not writing it. Are you mad?
And weirdly I am still waking up with What's the Frequency, Kenneth? in my head, every single day. It's been months now. Maybe if I listen to In Time for a million revolutions it just might leave me alone.
Or maybe it won't.
Monday 22 January 2007
Subjection.
Happiness is a skill, it requires effort and time.
So said the monk reputed to be the "world's happiest person"
That's right, it does. It takes time and effort. Happiness isn't something that falls into your lap and unfortunately neither does anything else. I'm betting the monk doesn't have bills to pay, homework to supervise, pipes to thaw, or relationship issues. I picture him like the monks I see in movies, living in a hushed monastery perched on top of a mountain somewhere, a minimalist with prayers and time and faith and very little else. The monks are always self-sufficient in those movies, they grow their own food, they're off the grid. They don't have a care in the world.
How do you really expect to glean advice from or have admiration for someone who's life is nothing like yours?
Exactly. You don't. You can't, or you'll set yourself up for disappointment. It's inevitable.
I'm cynical. I need to work on that too. So here, something I rarely share. Being a minister's wife, I should be beating you over the head with this kind of thing. But I don't. I find it a deeply personal and private matter, usually. Kind of like how Jake feels about our sex life.
Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your Presence?
If I go up into the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me",
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
Psalm 139:7-10
This is written on the front of one of Jacob's notebooks and it always gives me comfort. It soars like a dove over my moods and lifts me right up out of wherever I have landed on that day or in that moment.
So does Rufus Wainwright and Ben Harper, singing Beatles songs to me today. I've got new coffee mugs and the neatest garland for the porch windows. It's all wooden daisies and beads strung on white raffia. My porch is becoming an eclectic little spot. A hammock, gardening stuff and copper windchimes, lanterns and tiny lights and now the garland and blown glass window balls. It's our cozy hideaway. We got rid of the swing. We spent so much time on that swing last spring we decided we hated it. We're on a mission to change most of the rooms in the house, one at a time.
Because..well, onward and upward, right? Because Jacob and I are just as relentless in our our love for each other as God is for everyone, no matter what.
So said the monk reputed to be the "world's happiest person"
That's right, it does. It takes time and effort. Happiness isn't something that falls into your lap and unfortunately neither does anything else. I'm betting the monk doesn't have bills to pay, homework to supervise, pipes to thaw, or relationship issues. I picture him like the monks I see in movies, living in a hushed monastery perched on top of a mountain somewhere, a minimalist with prayers and time and faith and very little else. The monks are always self-sufficient in those movies, they grow their own food, they're off the grid. They don't have a care in the world.
How do you really expect to glean advice from or have admiration for someone who's life is nothing like yours?
Exactly. You don't. You can't, or you'll set yourself up for disappointment. It's inevitable.
I'm cynical. I need to work on that too. So here, something I rarely share. Being a minister's wife, I should be beating you over the head with this kind of thing. But I don't. I find it a deeply personal and private matter, usually. Kind of like how Jake feels about our sex life.
Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your Presence?
If I go up into the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me",
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
Psalm 139:7-10
This is written on the front of one of Jacob's notebooks and it always gives me comfort. It soars like a dove over my moods and lifts me right up out of wherever I have landed on that day or in that moment.
So does Rufus Wainwright and Ben Harper, singing Beatles songs to me today. I've got new coffee mugs and the neatest garland for the porch windows. It's all wooden daisies and beads strung on white raffia. My porch is becoming an eclectic little spot. A hammock, gardening stuff and copper windchimes, lanterns and tiny lights and now the garland and blown glass window balls. It's our cozy hideaway. We got rid of the swing. We spent so much time on that swing last spring we decided we hated it. We're on a mission to change most of the rooms in the house, one at a time.
Because..well, onward and upward, right? Because Jacob and I are just as relentless in our our love for each other as God is for everyone, no matter what.
Night skating.
Sunday night I opted to surprise Jacob instead of the other way around. Payback for some of his romantic efforts of late. Retribution for some of the heartache I have caused him lately. It's been 170 days since our tiny little surprise wedding and we like to mark the milestones, however quirky and nonsensical they may be.
I took him night skating on the river. After the kids were in bed and the sitter was settled in, we grabbed our skates and headed down to the river, where there are plowed trails, lit with lampposts, with hot chocolate stations and warming cabins every half a kilometre or so, and very few people out on a Sunday night after 8 pm.
We were off, out and free in the exhilarating night air.
The evening sky was a beautiful shade of teal, with a sliver of a silver moon and Jupiter visible just below it, the brightest star. The wind was calm and the air was brisk but not as cold as I expected it to be, allowing for rosy cheeks but no frostbite.
We trundled down the steps and onto the ice, making our way to a cabin with a fireplace, where we laced on our skates and put on mittens, and then Jacob took my hand and we glided off down the path. It was so still and so silent, one of those nights when your eyes take in the entire sky and you feel more alive than you've ever felt before. We didn't skate fast, just briskly enough to cover several quiet miles before stopping to buy steaming cups of hot chocolate at a stand a little off the beaten path. We sat by the fire and sipped the chocolate and talked a little bit. Mostly about the week to come, purposely avoiding any heavy subjects that might cast a pall over such a luminous night. When we finished we resumed our skate, turning to go back the way we came. Jacob showed off just a little, skating circles around me and then coming in fast and lifting me off my feet and I was howling that if he let me fall he would be in trouble. We danced on the ice for a moment and then tripped and almost went down but were saved at the last moment by a well-placed light post.
And then we just stopped and stood with our arms around each other. My cheek pressed against the cool boiled wool of his old pea coat, his arms tight around me, a weird thrilling feeling in the cold, dark quiet of the river trail. We were finished skating for the night.
Hand in hand we found our way back to the steps and our boots and we took off our skates, cheeks flushed and fingers icy and stinging, and we returned to the truck.
Once inside and warm, Jacob drove home slowly, the roads were slippery and it was hard to see.
I wish we could do this every night.
Be together?
Yeah, and glide across the ice with Jupiter over our heads.
That was a nice touch, princess.
Thanks, took years to coordinate that special ambiance.
I can imagine.
So you really had fun with me, Jake?
So much that I think we should make it a weekly thing.
But?
But?
I hear a 'but' in there.
I feel like it's the calm before the storm. Like we're very good at all the remarkable moments and unable to keep the momentum through the unremarkable ones.
Stop. Don't ruin this.
We drop it every time.
Because it's too hard.
Then how do we get through the in-between times?
We try harder.
I thought we were, Bridge. I thought we were all about getting it right this time around. Why is this so tough?
Because we had lives and we pushed them aside. We were selfish.
We weren't selfish! Christ, we waited forever.
Maybe we were selfish in that we built lives knowing we weren't in the right places and we did it anyways, trying to have it all.
Or maybe we just need to try harder.
Then that's what we'll do.
Can we?
We can. I can. I will, anyway.
Did I ever tell you I love you?
Not within the past ten minutes.
I love you.
Thank heavens, I was starting to wonder. I love you too.
You'd better. I think trying to find a third wife to make up for the first two would be a real pain in the ass right now.
Did I mention you suck?
Jupiter took your words, didn't he?
He did, be jealous.
Eh, he can have you.
Suck, Jacob. You suck.
Can't carry on a conversation with you anyway. What good are you?
Oh, I have my moments.
With us, goofy talk usually leads to flirting, which leads to kissing, which leads to getting the babysitter safely home and then it leads to a lapdance, which leads to making love in a chair in which Bridget can do nothing except hold on, Jacob has to do all the work and so he leads. And it works and we don't fight and we don't struggle and it doesn't turn into something bad. And it was a most wonderful way to mark 170 days with my husband.
I took him night skating on the river. After the kids were in bed and the sitter was settled in, we grabbed our skates and headed down to the river, where there are plowed trails, lit with lampposts, with hot chocolate stations and warming cabins every half a kilometre or so, and very few people out on a Sunday night after 8 pm.
We were off, out and free in the exhilarating night air.
The evening sky was a beautiful shade of teal, with a sliver of a silver moon and Jupiter visible just below it, the brightest star. The wind was calm and the air was brisk but not as cold as I expected it to be, allowing for rosy cheeks but no frostbite.
We trundled down the steps and onto the ice, making our way to a cabin with a fireplace, where we laced on our skates and put on mittens, and then Jacob took my hand and we glided off down the path. It was so still and so silent, one of those nights when your eyes take in the entire sky and you feel more alive than you've ever felt before. We didn't skate fast, just briskly enough to cover several quiet miles before stopping to buy steaming cups of hot chocolate at a stand a little off the beaten path. We sat by the fire and sipped the chocolate and talked a little bit. Mostly about the week to come, purposely avoiding any heavy subjects that might cast a pall over such a luminous night. When we finished we resumed our skate, turning to go back the way we came. Jacob showed off just a little, skating circles around me and then coming in fast and lifting me off my feet and I was howling that if he let me fall he would be in trouble. We danced on the ice for a moment and then tripped and almost went down but were saved at the last moment by a well-placed light post.
And then we just stopped and stood with our arms around each other. My cheek pressed against the cool boiled wool of his old pea coat, his arms tight around me, a weird thrilling feeling in the cold, dark quiet of the river trail. We were finished skating for the night.
Hand in hand we found our way back to the steps and our boots and we took off our skates, cheeks flushed and fingers icy and stinging, and we returned to the truck.
Once inside and warm, Jacob drove home slowly, the roads were slippery and it was hard to see.
I wish we could do this every night.
Be together?
Yeah, and glide across the ice with Jupiter over our heads.
That was a nice touch, princess.
Thanks, took years to coordinate that special ambiance.
I can imagine.
So you really had fun with me, Jake?
So much that I think we should make it a weekly thing.
But?
But?
I hear a 'but' in there.
I feel like it's the calm before the storm. Like we're very good at all the remarkable moments and unable to keep the momentum through the unremarkable ones.
Stop. Don't ruin this.
We drop it every time.
Because it's too hard.
Then how do we get through the in-between times?
We try harder.
I thought we were, Bridge. I thought we were all about getting it right this time around. Why is this so tough?
Because we had lives and we pushed them aside. We were selfish.
We weren't selfish! Christ, we waited forever.
Maybe we were selfish in that we built lives knowing we weren't in the right places and we did it anyways, trying to have it all.
Or maybe we just need to try harder.
Then that's what we'll do.
Can we?
We can. I can. I will, anyway.
Did I ever tell you I love you?
Not within the past ten minutes.
I love you.
Thank heavens, I was starting to wonder. I love you too.
You'd better. I think trying to find a third wife to make up for the first two would be a real pain in the ass right now.
Did I mention you suck?
Jupiter took your words, didn't he?
He did, be jealous.
Eh, he can have you.
Suck, Jacob. You suck.
Can't carry on a conversation with you anyway. What good are you?
Oh, I have my moments.
With us, goofy talk usually leads to flirting, which leads to kissing, which leads to getting the babysitter safely home and then it leads to a lapdance, which leads to making love in a chair in which Bridget can do nothing except hold on, Jacob has to do all the work and so he leads. And it works and we don't fight and we don't struggle and it doesn't turn into something bad. And it was a most wonderful way to mark 170 days with my husband.
Sunday 21 January 2007
Jumping Jeremiah.
So Jeremiah Johnson turned out to be a beautifully rendered, seventies edition of Legends of the Fall. It was really good. I was a whole ten minutes into it when the time frame shifted and Bob appeared with a full beard and longer, messier hair and I just about fell off the couch. He looked exactly like Jacob. It was a little bit unreal.
Now I see what the fuss was about, why everyone wanted me to see the movie when it came out on TV. And when Jacob came home and I mentioned it he just laughed and said if he cut his hair and shaved every day people think of him as Redford's character in Barefoot in the Park and so it's better for them to liken him to the half-crazy fur trapper living in the woods who does what needs to be done. The guy everyone reveres and no one will mess with.
He's probably right.
In any event, at least no one calls him Sundance. The mustache with the beard is cool, but the mustache alone just looks strange on Redford, kind of like it does on Jake.
I'm on a mission now to watch the future! So I have to hunt down the rest of Bob's newer movies. I've seen Indecent Proposal seventy million and one times and we don't joke about it. We lived it instead. Only I did it for less than a million dollars and there was an alternate ending.
Shhh.
Now I see what the fuss was about, why everyone wanted me to see the movie when it came out on TV. And when Jacob came home and I mentioned it he just laughed and said if he cut his hair and shaved every day people think of him as Redford's character in Barefoot in the Park and so it's better for them to liken him to the half-crazy fur trapper living in the woods who does what needs to be done. The guy everyone reveres and no one will mess with.
He's probably right.
In any event, at least no one calls him Sundance. The mustache with the beard is cool, but the mustache alone just looks strange on Redford, kind of like it does on Jake.
I'm on a mission now to watch the future! So I have to hunt down the rest of Bob's newer movies. I've seen Indecent Proposal seventy million and one times and we don't joke about it. We lived it instead. Only I did it for less than a million dollars and there was an alternate ending.
Shhh.
Saturday 20 January 2007
Checking off a list.
I'm fine, really. I'm sort of okay if you don't dig very deep.
And I have a date tonight with Bob.
Four messages on my answering machine telling us we have got to watch Jeremiah Johnson on AMC tonight. No one said why. But they said not to Google it so I can't even link you.
Which is funny, I'm a huge fan of Robert Redford (not just because of the resemblance to Jacob, or is it vice versa?) but I've avoided a few of his movies because they were older and maybe the subject matter seemed unappealing. Fur trapping? Wilderness? Naw, I'll pass.
I'll watch it and see. Kind of bizarre, the enthusiasm for this one though. Sam said it was the 35th anniversary of the movie and it has been restored. He's all excited for me to see it but he wouldn't tell me why.
Saturday night fur trapping movies. Yeehaw. Not like we had any plans because Jacob has to work tonight and is on call but still.
So I can bury myself in blankets and absorb into a movie and pretend that life is like it is in the movies because I like it that way.
And I have a date tonight with Bob.
Four messages on my answering machine telling us we have got to watch Jeremiah Johnson on AMC tonight. No one said why. But they said not to Google it so I can't even link you.
Which is funny, I'm a huge fan of Robert Redford (not just because of the resemblance to Jacob, or is it vice versa?) but I've avoided a few of his movies because they were older and maybe the subject matter seemed unappealing. Fur trapping? Wilderness? Naw, I'll pass.
I'll watch it and see. Kind of bizarre, the enthusiasm for this one though. Sam said it was the 35th anniversary of the movie and it has been restored. He's all excited for me to see it but he wouldn't tell me why.
Saturday night fur trapping movies. Yeehaw. Not like we had any plans because Jacob has to work tonight and is on call but still.
So I can bury myself in blankets and absorb into a movie and pretend that life is like it is in the movies because I like it that way.
Friday 19 January 2007
Threats and promises.
Dollface, you'll never be in control of your life.
Cole used to say that to me. Too often. He was an in-charge type of absent in which he had final say and I did all the legwork and if I fumbled somewhere along the way he would simply reiterate that this was why he was in control, so that he could control me. Convince me I was useless.
Scathing, burning memories on a day when the sky is that milky grey it turns to just before the snow starts and I miss him.
His presence in my life was so prolific and predictable and constant it's still hard not to look around for him or to wait for him sometimes. When I have to make a decision I wonder what he would do. I miss the way I was able to get my way with him with a few big crocodile tears. Cole would drop everything and positively crumble when I cried, save for a few very violent occasions. His world ended when I was that upset, he much preferred me to be vaguely unsettled and permanently frail, in his debt. He wanted me to need him and so I did and I learned to rely on some phenomenally destructive personality quirks that grew into a wholly immature adult woman incapable of not needing a man around to be In Charge.
On days like these I wonder if he's cold and that's dumb.
Dammit, the rambles are loose. Ignore it all. Or don't. I don't care. It's not going to be a happy blog. I don't do happy blog, okay? I need help.
So why do I miss Cole when it snows? I really don't have an answer. Considering all of our anniversaries and good memories are during warmer seasons. All of the bad memories are from those same seasons, too. He even died in the summer, during one of the hottest weeks on record. Maybe it's because I can't get away from him. He chases me through my dreams every night, he's woven firmly into my memories and good or bad, I can't erase him from my past because I have his living reminders here. Reminders that he did love me even though he couldn't show me in any sort of acceptable, peaceable way. Reminders that his legacy will do better than he did and that we survived his madness. Or did we?
Reminders that he made threats and they're all going to come true even though he's dead. A promise that I will never be allowed to deal with any of this because Jacob won't allow it. He would prefer to continue to pretend that Cole never existed, except to the kids. He has all the time in the world to talk with the kids about Cole, and not even one single second to talk with me about Cole. And that is why they're doing well with it and I am not.
It's been six months and I haven't been permitted to grieve. Ever. I've been led firmly, one hand on my back, pushed through decisions and plans and memorials and I can stand here and say I hated him for what he did to me but..
I don't.
So it would be a lie.
And Jacob doesn't like lies.
Cole used to say that to me. Too often. He was an in-charge type of absent in which he had final say and I did all the legwork and if I fumbled somewhere along the way he would simply reiterate that this was why he was in control, so that he could control me. Convince me I was useless.
Scathing, burning memories on a day when the sky is that milky grey it turns to just before the snow starts and I miss him.
His presence in my life was so prolific and predictable and constant it's still hard not to look around for him or to wait for him sometimes. When I have to make a decision I wonder what he would do. I miss the way I was able to get my way with him with a few big crocodile tears. Cole would drop everything and positively crumble when I cried, save for a few very violent occasions. His world ended when I was that upset, he much preferred me to be vaguely unsettled and permanently frail, in his debt. He wanted me to need him and so I did and I learned to rely on some phenomenally destructive personality quirks that grew into a wholly immature adult woman incapable of not needing a man around to be In Charge.
On days like these I wonder if he's cold and that's dumb.
Dammit, the rambles are loose. Ignore it all. Or don't. I don't care. It's not going to be a happy blog. I don't do happy blog, okay? I need help.
So why do I miss Cole when it snows? I really don't have an answer. Considering all of our anniversaries and good memories are during warmer seasons. All of the bad memories are from those same seasons, too. He even died in the summer, during one of the hottest weeks on record. Maybe it's because I can't get away from him. He chases me through my dreams every night, he's woven firmly into my memories and good or bad, I can't erase him from my past because I have his living reminders here. Reminders that he did love me even though he couldn't show me in any sort of acceptable, peaceable way. Reminders that his legacy will do better than he did and that we survived his madness. Or did we?
Reminders that he made threats and they're all going to come true even though he's dead. A promise that I will never be allowed to deal with any of this because Jacob won't allow it. He would prefer to continue to pretend that Cole never existed, except to the kids. He has all the time in the world to talk with the kids about Cole, and not even one single second to talk with me about Cole. And that is why they're doing well with it and I am not.
It's been six months and I haven't been permitted to grieve. Ever. I've been led firmly, one hand on my back, pushed through decisions and plans and memorials and I can stand here and say I hated him for what he did to me but..
I don't.
So it would be a lie.
And Jacob doesn't like lies.
Play dead, Bridget.
Bridget loves George.
Did I mention how cool was George Stroumboulopoulus' shirt on a few weeks back on The Hour? Well it was awesome, and with PLAY DEAD written across the back in huge gothic letters and an adorable tiny skull on the front it was bound to catch the eye of Bridget's hushed inner gothic princess, who promptly dragged Jacob in by the TV to see it. He liked it. I'm buying him one.
I found the company quickly, Play Dead Cult clothing. I have to get Loch to seek out the actual shirt as it wasn't on their website - he has all kinds of time to run wild goose chases down in hot potato town, right?
Of course he will for me.
For Valentine's Day, which is just about a week after the noted day on which Jake and I will have been married for six whole months. Where in the heck did the time go?
Did I mention how cool was George Stroumboulopoulus' shirt on a few weeks back on The Hour? Well it was awesome, and with PLAY DEAD written across the back in huge gothic letters and an adorable tiny skull on the front it was bound to catch the eye of Bridget's hushed inner gothic princess, who promptly dragged Jacob in by the TV to see it. He liked it. I'm buying him one.
I found the company quickly, Play Dead Cult clothing. I have to get Loch to seek out the actual shirt as it wasn't on their website - he has all kinds of time to run wild goose chases down in hot potato town, right?
Of course he will for me.
For Valentine's Day, which is just about a week after the noted day on which Jake and I will have been married for six whole months. Where in the heck did the time go?
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