Hesitating on the edge of I don't even know what.

    It's been a while since you last saw me
    One breaks down and the other ones fade
    These eyes can see the days break
    Too late for the other's mistakes

    Sit down laugh thinking what have we done
    Let me inside
    Is it all over before it's begun
    Please give me some time

The demand for emotion-filled posts on how I feel, how I'm doing seems to be blood for your veins and no one, even me, seems content to pass off a review or a few lines about how I spent a morning.

Interesting. Who is the masochist now?

Okay, I am, that wasn't fair, was it?

Here's the thing. Overwhelmingly, the most frequent question I get asked, aside from the please, write more porn one is why do I keep writing?

I promise, when I get to have more sex, I'll write about it. Until then we can all be frustrated together.

Here is why: I'm a writer, and I'm also loathe to leave anything unfinished. Walking away from this journal that will be four years old soon would be like turning off a movie you're really enjoying before the conclusion. I'm waiting to write my own happy ending.

I'm waiting to write better entries. I'm waiting to have better days. I'm trying to take deep breaths again and I'm learning to not worry about Ben dying or everyone leaving or winding up in hell where the fight over me will rage on. I'm content to have this incredibly stinging existence where I know I am loved and I can love in return but with a heaping serving of deja vu so large it throws a shadow on everything and keeps the sunlight from reaching the ground where I stand.

I'm going to get there. I'm looking forward to it.

I woke up alone this morning, alone with my smile. The sun came up and I threw open the window and beamed back at it. My friends called and I greeted each one of them with a happy good morning wish instead of my customary Hey. I walked the dog listening to happy music. I did some long-ignored clearing out of closets I haven't opened in months.

I found some strength. I found a little hope. I found that I might be able to get through this after all. Things get better. John gave me a rabbit's foot this morning as I stood on the field watching him take down the boards around the ice rink that Jacob helped construct at the beginning of the winter. He told me it would bring me luck. I told him he was right, it probably would.

Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe.

Hey. Short and sweet. A Bridget staple.

In between learning how to give Henry his asthma medications and listening to Ben tell me in great detail what he'd like to do to PJ when he gets home next week and the temperatures being on the right side of zero, I have a request.

Go watch Across the Universe. Right now. Turn it up.

Now go buy the DVD.

It's that good. I cried the first time I saw the trailer a year ago (don't tease me, please), and not only because I'm a huge Beatles fan but because it looked passionate. it was. For anyone who cringes thinking of covering Beatles songs and how good could they possibly be, rest assured. They are.

Soundtrack also available. Right now it's shaking the paintings right off my walls.

All the guys loved it. The kids loved it, we all pledged to watch it again this weekend. Ben watched it the same night and loved it. It's awesome, I'm falling back on that word again. I can't even describe why I liked it so much. Let's just say it had a little bit of everything in it, but between the music and the emotions and the total visual overload, I'm happy that movies like this are still being made.

For the record, I will try to keep PJ safe (STOP LAUGHING) from Ben and Henry is absolutely okay, it's very mild, and mostly manifesting in chronic coughing. He's my little man, such a trooper.

    See how they fly like Lucy in the Sky, see how they run.
    I'm crying.

Ghostwriter.

It's been healthy returning to some old favorite activities recently, like taking a morning out of the weekend to stroll the farmer's market, moved indoors until the warmer weather, rife with knitted goods and the remains of winter vegetables, mostly a few assorted, tired-looking squash, the every populous parsnips no one likes and apples, so many apples. I buy them by the basket. Potatoes too.

Saturday morning I took the kids by myself. We sang along with the new Jack Johnson CD (they like it, so hush) on the way out past the edge of the city and instead of the usual suspects in root vegetables we were greeted with new boxes of glorious early spring fruits, better than what I can find at the grocery store. Mountains of gorgeous California strawberries.

Before I knew what I was doing, I asked the man selling them for ten pounds, wrapped to travel. After all, it's been three seasons since I bottled jam for the dry pantry, we're all but out of it now. I was practically drooling. It was all I could think about as I fixed lunch on Sunday and then cleaned up, fielded a half-dozen phone calls and then sent the kids to play so I could start.

I picked up my paring knife and then I changed my mind, heading upstairs to the bedroom. I opened the closet and got out the big wooden box and dug through journals and treasures until I found what I was looking for, and then I returned to the kitchen, took the big bowl full of berries and a newspaper and brought it out into the sunny front porch, thankful I had my sweater on. It's still cool but the sun makes a huge difference. I sat down on the floor and opened Jacob's jackknife, retrieved from the box of memories because he always said it did the best job.

I sat humming and hulling berries for around thirty minutes when the porch door slammed shut behind me. I asked Henry to go easy on the doors and continued to work and suddenly I felt a soft breeze on my neck, like someone walking past me, only gentler. I turned my head and no one was there and all the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

Then once again, the most gentle movement again, on the back of my neck. A kiss. A kiss made by someone who isn't there any more. A kiss bestowed to let me know that he is most definitely watching over me, and that he is happy I am keeping with our strawberry traditions, that the work that goes into preparing the berries and cooking and storing the jam properly so that it makes it through the year is so much more satisfying and wonderful than heading to the grocery store for a three-dollar jar of brand-name jam. Commercial facist jam, corporate artificial sweetness, Jacob called it. Capitalist Smuck.

He approves of me making jam, then. I almost screamed in agony. I knew that kiss. Oh, how I wanted that kiss, but from his flesh and blood, not from his memory, a mere ghost to haunt the rooms I am in. On the other hand, I wanted to feel him, I complained that I couldn't feel him, that I didn't have him here with me, and he is here to tell me I do.

I feel him.

He is here.

Watching me make his strawberry jam.

Rarified.

PJ and I got into it this morning.

He didn't come by last night, didn't call, and this morning I called him to see how his night went. He was just getting in. He started to give me a play by play of his evening, relaying his side of the conversation, telling his date about hanging out with the kids and with Butterfield and some of our trips to the farm. I stopped him twice, somewhat incredulous that he would spend the better part of a first date monopolizing the conversation with tales of another girl. Halfway through the date he lost interest when she predictably failed to be cool with all of what he managed to lay out for her.

I told him he was an idiot and that if he wanted a steady girlfriend, he should learn to let the girl he is with lead the conversation and for the sake of all that is holy, not bring up close friends who are girls. He dared me not to be the pot calling the kettle black, because who the fuck was I to be giving relationship advice? It was Bridget for the win because it's probably the only time I can be proud to rattle off consecutive relationships without a breath in between and not be ashamed of it, because he has had trouble finding girlfriends over the years. PJ asked me not to confuse being a whore to my friends with finding a soulmate.

Ouch.

He then said he slept with her anyway and when she was face down he pretended she was me.

Oh, he's uncharacteristically good at the hurt when he wants to be. He melts down all over me about once a year or less, he usually has his shit together better than anyone.

I didn't say anything and after about five minutes of angry silence, since we won't hang up on each other, he said he was sorry. That he felt stupid enough for the way he had behaved and I asked him if he was apologizing to the right person. He paused significantly and agreed to attempt to make it up to her.

Then he asked if he could make it up to me. I cut him off with a gentle observation that I think we're even. He said softly that he hates the rare arguments and that he didn't mean it. I said I knew and if he wanted to come by later this evening I would have some strawberry jam for him to take home. He loves the jam I make. I could hear him grin through the phone and he gently chided me for being too easy to forgive, too easy on him.

He would be wrong. It doesn't come easily but I try anyway because he is right, who am I to give directions when I'm more lost than everyone else?

Point taken.

    You make this all go away.
    You make this all go away.
    I'm down to just one thing.
    And I'm starting to scare myself.
    You make this all go away.
    You make this all go away.
    I just want something.
    I just want something I can never have

You live life knowing you're watched and then finally you stop spinning with your arms raised over your head and your skirt floats back from your knees to your ankles and your hair lies tangled down your back and you meet his eyes and in that moment you see so very clearly the transition from friend to more than friend. Or maybe that's the moment love drops into your life once again. It's a treasure I only wish I could put into a box for safekeeping, that moment. That is the most special of times in your life.

Would it not be for his liquid fallacies I swear Ben would have been content to keep his secrets forever. To pretend I was just a distraction. To be the watcher who wasn't paying attention but saw everything and took his opportunities when they presented themselves to him, rather than embarking upon frustrating campaigns for change. He jumped only with a clear or perceived or irresistible invitation.

You know something? So content is everyone with Ben's place in life that no one watches him anymore.

No one's watching the watcher.

They watched Cole, from a close distance. They put Jacob under a harsh scrutiny that he welcomed, that cracked him eventually, with Ben they have all now chosen to rest easy. At peace. The world resumes a steady tick around the sun and no one needs to check anyone else.

I find that interesting.

Give me an hour and I'll give you more time.

The clocks will be set ahead this evening and Bridget made it all the way through.

We've reached the point where I leave the curtains open in the evenings until dinner is finished and cleared away, instead of having them drawn before we begin.

I am looking forward to the warm torrential spring rains, the early morning thunderstorms and the unbearable heat. Sleeping on the covers instead of buried beneath them, wearing as little as possible. Living in bare toes and flip-flops from Old Navy, purchased in every color of the rainbow because then I can wear two different ones and people give me a third look.

The oblivion behind a roaring air conditioner.

I look forward to barbecuing entire dinners and not having to wash so many pots, and I look forward to doing my customary awful job cutting the grass and longer walks with the dog where my eyes don't water and Butters isn't limping with frozen pads by the time I reach the driveway.

I'm anxious to wake up to the sheer curtains billowing up in the light overnight wind. I'm excited for ladybugs and butterflies and spending all our cash on hand at the ice cream parlour. I'm excited to see the guys excited for their motorcycle rides and being able to play guitar outdoors.

My patio lights are ready to go up. When that two feet of frozen snow melts.

Camping. I want to go camping. I want to go on some long car trips, trading MP3 players and stopping in unfamiliar places to eat and later be grateful that there were no serial killers at that rest stop, because it looked like a hang-out for them.

I am awaiting the midnight sun.

I am awaiting my own life. On hold but not on hold.

He's gone again. He came home to hold me and now he has to go back. I'm taking the kids to the market this morning and then we'll run some other errands and come home and play Henry's math game and cook spaghetti, have warm baths and hit the hay early.

On a funny note, PJ called to let me know he might be by late if at all tonight. He has a date.

That was possibly the best news I think I have ever heard.

Good things come in big packages.

There was a surprise waiting for me in the porch when I came back from walking the dog.

It was over six feet tall, brown hair, brown eyes.

It's name is Benjamin, my surprise. And in eighteen hours he'll be gone again.

The long, breathless kiss was followed by a big goofy grin because he knew I never expected him home tonight. I only get him until early tomorrow morning so I must go and make the best of the time we have.

So HEY.

I think I'll post all day and just drive everyone crazy.

I am not dating Ben Folds. But thanks for playing, whoever emailed me their triumphant discovery. Ben is not that Ben. Oh, and please stop guessing.

I found the coolest thing on Etsy this morning. I need a pear cozy for my favorite snack because my pears get mushed in my huge bag.

The laundry is still not dry. Dryer-repairman wasn't one of Jacob's strong suits. One of few flaws overall or the least of many, your call.

Blinded by what I hear.

    Something that I felt today, something that I heard
    Swinging from the chandeliers, hanging on your word
    I remember watching you once upon a time
    Dancing from across the room in another life
I finished Ben's new scarf. Black and grey stripes like the little guy at the beginning of the Horton Hears a Who trailer. He can layer it over his headphones and ignore the world as he walks in his own, hands strumming to whatever plays on his iPod, eyes seemingly unfocused but missing nothing, an instinctive peripheral vision that borders on spooky.

When I put on my headphones, also threaded under and up over a handknit scarf, fuzzy pink mohair that I usually wind up picking off my tongue for hours afterward, I launch myself onto another planet where I am blind but my hearing is perfect, one where oxygen comes in the form of musical notes and I walk a rhythm on bars and tabs. The one where a freight train could sneak up on me and I would chose to ignore the blaring horn in favor of a great lead from a long-dead musician, or beauty in a lyric I'd concentrate hard to remember, to bring the words back home while that engine leaves streaks of paint on my skin and tears my clothes to ribbons, leaving me a memory for someone else to keep or shove away.

He worries about me. I have been glued to headphones of one size or another, one quality or better for most of my days, and I still haven't learned how to watch where I'm going or how to avoid a train.

I'm going to run out of wood (please, no jokes).

What do you get when you add a blowtorch and then ice water to a bowl of vintage marbles?

You get crackley marbles. Which look very pretty.

It's so cold here we have resorted to fire games to have fun (and to think I picked on my neighbor for a similar stunt a while back). Because seriously, the windchill was so low this afternoon that when I walked over to get the kids from school I had to unclench everything from the full-body kegel I was doing.

I bribed John this evening to bring in as much wood as I could make space for. I don't plan to let the stove go out until this latest gale is over. I suppose I should bribe him to stick around and keep me warm but Butterfield has that covered. As long as I sleep in Ben's bed instead of mine, that is.

Ten more whole days.

And I am still doing very well. The emails have been very sweet and supportive. You guys seriously rock. I'm not the easiest girl to come and read, I know. It means the world that you do anyway.