Here it is the first day of fall and I'm contemplating an entire day of baking before dissolving into the flannel arms of someone who is free and unencumbered with a laptop/book/guitar/hot beverage.
That's healthy for Bridget.
I'm also contemplating taking the unopened forty of Maker's Mark that I saw in Caleb's kitchen out to the garage where I will lie on the cold wet concrete floor in my pajamas, drink the whole thing and then ask Jacob in a hesitant, quiet manner why exactly a sixth year without him is suddenly cause for a whole new round of attempts to gently persuade me to move on, finally.
That's not healthy or something or other.
Maybe I can pull off a mix of both. Or maybe Jacob will appear in the living room with a book or a folder full of notes and his bible in hand and I can throw myself in his arms and then when he decides he actually wants to do some work I'll be handed off to Lochlan's flannel embrace for a perfectly innocent snuggle by the fire.
It's my brain, I'll decide.
I think I'll skip the booze, baking and bereavement and head straight for the flannel-wrapped nap. It's healthier even than the chocolate-chip banana bread I had planned on making today.
