What would you do if I wouldn't sing for them no more?Indulging in a rainy, windy day, a bottomless mug of the really good coffee, courtesy of August's Breville monstrosity and the new Lana Del Rey album, because August is one of the few here who tolerates my smalltown-beach-lovesong-acoustic aesthetic or whatever it was PJ called it yesterday in uncharacteristic but complete familiar and bitter disdain.
Like if you heard I was out in the bars drinking jack and coke
Going crazy for anyone who would listen to my stories, babe?
Time after time, I think about leaving
But you know that I never do, just because you keep me believing
Lochlan still sleeps, bed swaying gentle three feet off the floor. This suspended bed will never get old for me, matching the surprise I feel now when August all but encourages me to bring Lochlan.
No, that never gets old.
Yesterday morning I watched the car go up the drive.
You going to go back to letting me help for the time being?
All hands on deck.
All hands on deck, he repeats. I can hardly hear it. So soft.
I turn and look at him. I don't say anything else.
It'll be okay, Bridget. Just like before when he wasn't here. He made me rethink a few things and I think we can keep you on track.
We couldn't and we won't, because we (I) wouldn't/won't let us (them). Ha.
I can sabotage the very best moments, and as always nothing changed. Except for that fleeting second of relief as he left, which bled down into the rain, colouring the water with a bloom of grey.
Ran into the dark, Lana sings and I nod. Yes, indeed I did.