It's a family meeting. I sit, knees together, perched on the chaise in front of Ben, who has ninety percent of it to my ten. The small copper box rests in my hands, as my fingers rub the little enamel bluebird who after thirteen years glows with an attention paid in spades, enamel gone, beautiful warm copper and no blue remaining. My fingers are nervous, trembling, rubbing the bird in a steady circle, a worry stone to replace the oval adventurine one Lochlan found for me on the beach in Cape Tormentine when I was nine. I wore it right through. I still have it.
My brain is screaming the opening lyrics to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. I should tell them I can't hear them but they're so focused and attentive right now.
Lochlan has the bridge of his nose held by his thumb and middle finger. His index finger has disappeared into his waves. Curls on the bottom, waves on top. It's grown so much since summer. It's getting darker on top for the lack of sun.
(I'm going back to my plough back to the howling old owl in the woooooooooooods hunting the horny backed toad oh I've finally decided my future lies beyond the yellow brick roaaaaaaaaaad)
Hold the line, he says.
She needs more-
He lets go and stares at August. We need to hold it. She'll be okay.
He knows I can't hear him so he's kindly shoved me right outside of the conversation. I don't need to have any input. Not anymore.
She'll be okay. He repeats it to reassure them and I feel soothed by that. I hand Jacob back to Ben, who takes the box in one hand. I resume rubbing my fingertips with my fingers. I have no fingerprints left.