Citrus snow.

The best way to eat a grapefruit is outside on the front steps.

First you have to put a pinch of white sugar in a bowl. Then peel the grapefruit and separate into sections, breaking each section in half to remove any seeds. Discard the peel and the seeds and then toss the bowl a few times to land sugar on each piece. Eat voraciously while shivering and then lick the remaining juice off your fingers while smiling, because someone watched you from beginning to end with sleepy amusement.

Then if you feel so inclined you can wander down to the wrought iron gate and get the newspaper to take inside where you will be relieved of it before you can slip out of your boots. In exchange for the paper you're offered a steaming hot cup of coffee and a kiss and then an unexpected hour alone to jot down ideas and do a little bit of writing.

It would be perfect except you are checked on every ten minutes or so, which seems strange when the amount of time you have spent alone in the past two weeks is considered, but you opt to call it charming and give up on writing in favor of reading.

There is a big dinner planned for this evening, and not at home. Out at a place where we'll leave our shoes by the door and go inside and sit on the floor around a big low table and they'll close the rice paper doors and come inside in little groups to replenish things and it's a lot like the interruptions you have this morning but you don't mind those either.

Not today.

    Too alarming now to talk about
    Take your pictures down
    and shake it out
    Truth or consequence, say it aloud
    Use that evidence race it around

    There goes my hero
    Watch him as he goes
    There goes my hero
    He's ordinary

Icing on the cake.

There's cake. I no longer need cake. I'm getting a little pudgy.

Shhh.

I need to run but the sidewalks are sheets of ice and it's too wet to run on the road so as soon as I get my act together I'm going to be using the elliptical and the weight bench thingie which is always not as fun as running but probably better than sitting around licking the knife from cutting said cake.

Almost forgot what I popped in to mention.

I was given my present this afternoon. After Ben almost lost it, since he had emptied out his suitcase and it wasn't there. No, it was under a guitar because that's where you put the important stuff.

A vintage music box. A very tiny little hinged box that plays Fur Elise (haltingly) when you open it. I found that funny because it's one of the few songs I can't seem to play all the way through from memory on the piano.

And inside?

His six month medallion. Six months sober. So very important, this is.

To thine own self be true, it says. Indeed.

Just perfect.

    Sacrifice yourself and let me have what's left.

There were wild bunny tracks all over the lawn this morning, defined in a thick white layer of new fallen snow. They're happy spring is here too, and they probably don't enjoy this most recent blizzard, one that saw Ben fly into the city with his knuckles most likely white in their deathgrip on his armrests. He said the flight was awful but he didn't care because he was home and because he was with me.

Is it so bad that when I see him I get goosebumps all over? All that and still he knows he's been handed the box of cookies with mere crumbled bits in the bottom. What was left. The part no one wanted. His favorite part. He has me all to himself now. Sometimes I can look at him and smile and then burst into tears and he knows why and it's okay and someday I won't do that, hopefully.

I bet he hopes that a little more often than he says he does.

Sometimes I wish I had been able to give him everything right off the bat. Instead of getting a survivor, weakened and broken and still vaguely unsteady, that he could have had Bridget when he met Bridget. New and fresh and happy and young and full of promise, plans and 'good' nervous tension.

The bad tension drains away when he touches me.

The unsteadiness evaporates when I am tucked into his arms.

The broken parts heal with his words or his touch.

He is a patient man. Whenever I bring up memories or disparaging things to talk about he steers the subject to hopeful things or funny things. Whenever I feel like I can't quite get my hands to stop or my mouth to cooperate he holds them or kisses me as if he can take some of it away or at least kill the bad stuff with a new moment, a good moment.

Since he came home last night he's been very close by. I won't even tell you how close he is right now. I just poked him, did you see that? I barely had to move. He's smiled more in the past twelve hours than he did when I joined him for the last epic visit on the road. He's as relaxed as I have ever seen him. Doesn't argue, even when I put the jam knife in the peanut butter to provoke him, which is usually cause for cries of Fail! and repetition of why messing the two up is bad and it's okay if it's for a peanut butter and jam sandwich but what if I'm having jam on a crumpet? Or peanut butter and banana and you just blended it all, messy girl. What am I supposed to do now?

Only he's usually kidding and today he didn't even care. And I didn't care when he fell asleep ON my hair instead of pulling it up out of the way like he usually does when we go to sleep. It's like we're just ourselves and there's nothing that can kill the mood.

Nothing.

I just pinched him to make sure and he grabbed my hand and pulled me in for a kiss and repeated what I just wrote. Nothing can kill this mood, little bee.

I didn't think he was watching that closely, but he was, with his customary white-knuckle approach. Holding tight in case of turbulence. Only the skies have cleared and all I see is the sun.

HOME.

He's home! He's home! He's HOME!

And you all suck for playing along with his ruse, though I should have known better. Was I always this gullib-

Who cares? Ben is home. I can breathe. I didn't even realize I wasn't.

More bunnies, more letters.

Ben had three very large chocolate bunnies delivered to the house this morning. Included was a note to 'check email'. I checked email as instructed and he had written me a letter. I won't share it with you but for sake of partial disclosure, it contained some very soothing reassurances that he has talked to Sam, and that Sam's allegiances no longer lie with Jacob and that Sam would tell me as much if I didn't go out of my way to avoid talking to him. The other surprise was that when Ben is back for good, or rather, in a little over two weeks, we'll be starting therapy. Together. With someone new that came highly recommended from someone Ben knows. So that we don't begin a new season on the wrong foot, so we don't fall, so we don't forget what we're doing here. So we make it, or at least have a better shot at something than we might if we wing it alone.

This smacks of fixing things, doesn't it? It makes me glad, though. I told him I would think about it, not because I want to risk everything but because I have heard it all before and I think it's amazing that he wants to play peacemaker and it's completely hilarious that he finally acknowledges how much we argue.

Sometimes I feel so much deeper, slower and more exposed than everyone else. Like I'm the burn victim and you're all the candy-striped volunteers and you can't help me with the pain but just for a little while I am distracted long enough to make it count.

Yuck. That comparison sucked. Shelve it, would you?

This morning I was looking around the internet to see what has become of people I used to talk with or comment back and forth with years ago, people who have all but disappeared now. I couldn't find any of them but life goes on. Life always goes on.

    Words are my promises, carved into stone. Words are the light by which we fight back the night. Words are the stick by which we measure each other. Words are the only gift I have for you that will ever be enough. I love you. Don't you ever forget that, princess.

A house full of girls.

Henry is the lone male in a house full of girls now. Erin is here. The kids are home. Ruth threw up in the truck on the way home from the airport. With her consent I threw away the outfit she had on. Then after they were tucked in bed for the night and Erin was on the phone making plans to see some old friends I went out and cleaned my truck in the dark. Thankfully this morning it looked pretty good and smelled cleaner than usual.

The kids may have grown. They were windblown and full of confidence. They were happy to be back and plunged into routine. Their systems are shot by the time zone change. Both were out of bed late last night looking for a snack.

Erin is well. This visit heralds her permanent return to the province. She's going to stay here until April 1st and then rent a flat in the city while her tenant expires the lease on her house south of here. She's not surprised or unhappy that I have found something in Ben, and she has managed to come to terms with her brother's death in an admirable way and has been adamant that I do the same.

Jacob sent letters to everyone. Mailed virtually the day he left town. Everyone got a letter explaining his plans and his reasons and his failings and Bridget got a book. I got a book. Dozens of letters that I don't know what order to put in, journals full of how he felt about me and why he was so temporary. It's like trying to learn a new language by sitting down with a novel written in that language and hoping for the best. There are so many words I drown in the quantity before I can latch onto a meaning for safety. I can't even read most of them.

Erin thinks I can just somehow accept it, deal with it and move on. So far I have only moved on. We somehow agreed silently to let it go. She is fine with Ben, she considered it an inevitability, which I found spooky, she thinks along the same lines as Loch when it comes to those things, and she is just happy to be back. She said the kids helped to rejuvenate her folks, that having them there helped to heal the whole family and she thanked me for allowing them to go.

She brought presents. She brought plans.

I'm happy she came back.

The house is now full of honey again. Honey and photographs of days that will never be repeated and love that will never return.

Someday bunnies will rule the world.

A little post on a quiet Sunday morning. I'm ready to roll but the kids don't get in until late afternoon. I'm not going to church, and the boys are all still asleep. I always have you, internet.

Well, I don't, but you rang my doorbell, I can't possibly have you going away empty-handed now, can I?

It's gorgeous here today, the sun is shining, the snow is melting rapidly now. My lawn is at least ten percent bare. There is no snow on the roof of the garage that I can see from the old master bedroom/Ruth's room or the turret, though there is snow on other people's buildings, still. I think it will be a painless thaw and a long, beautiful spring. The boys keep telling me there are buds on the trees and that geese are coming back in droves (or is that gaggles?) but I try not to look up at Jacob's sky.

I believe that Sam has all but given up on me. Our connection is broken, there is nothing to tie us together past his obligation to Jacob. August is slightly different in that regard, one of the few people that was able to swallow his professional opinions or allegiance to Jacob and become my friend easily. Joel couldn't manage it. Joel is gone (officially, permanently) at the end of this week from the rumors I hear. He calls every day still, without fail and I let my voicemail listen to his different approaches. One day he'll be quietly bitter, the next is a pretense that everything is fine, the next is a plea to just talk to him, that day followed by apologies and efforts to take his actions back. I just file them away in a mental cabinet that I will let the dust settle on until it is forgotten in history.

Yes, that's fair. I didn't just take. I was the only person Joel ever talked to about his agonizing divorce. I listened right back. I gave as much as I got. I owe him nothing. I'm going to owe him even less once he fully understands the gravity of choosing sides with Caleb. It's the most graceful way I can let him go.

As for Caleb, he does not call every day. He calls around twice a week and is well-versed in telling my recorded voice exactly what he needs to say. He's clipped and professional and rarely warm about it. It makes me laugh. There is no grace in dealing with him, I'm just trying to figure out how we went from passing all the cards back and forth to this new vaguely familiar standstill we wait at presently.

And this morning my wake-up call confirmed what I hesitantly mentioned last night. Yes, there are ten days left. Nine now, and promise. It'll be okay.

Easter for me has always been a starting-over point. This year will be no exception.

The art of noise.

    Say it to my face
    Look me in the eyes
    And say what you have to say
    You know we can't erase these words before goodbye
    And turn the final page

    Here comes alone again

I'm a little grumpy tonight, but only just a little. It could be the poor sleep. It could be the craziness of this city on a long weekend and wearing myself to pieces trying to navigate through the chaos. At several points in the day, Schuyler would reverse direction, walking back to me to grab my hand to thread us through the shoppers and market-goers, all of whom were rushing (like us) to fit in their errands on the one open between two closed days this weekend.

We capped off the afternoon with a late dinner at an Italian restaurant. They began to suggest another movie, some games, maybe a late evening walk or something. I told them they had earned their time off for good behavior. Before trusting me to be alone they did do me the favor of walking the dog in the gathering darkness and Butterfield and I are now locked in tight for the night, alone together, though he is poor company. He's splayed out on the floor underneath the coffee table now, snoring and having his puppy dreams.

I talked to him for a bit but he didn't seem to care.

Daniel said before they left that I should sleep in my bed tonight and that they could be here in moments if I needed them. I reminded him that he says that every time he leaves and that in an emergency John is only two streets away but yes, I would call Daniel too. He said he'll be happier when Ben is back and I nodded because there was nothing I needed to say. I wish he was here right now because nights alone are things I believe I despise.

But I will be fine. I bought a new book to read. I filled the Easter baskets for the children and hid eggs all over the house in anticipation of tomorrow. I washed the dishes and caught up on the laundry since when the kids return home tomorrow everything in their suitcases will need to be washed again, and I hope to be in bed in an hour or so. I only have to stay up long enough to let Butters out one more time before bed and long enough to snag my treasured goodnight phone call from Ben.

I'll be happier when everyone is home. I'm one hundred percent sure the kids grew while they were away. They always seem so much bigger when they come home. Ten days is such a long time.

That's how many days are left until Ben comes home for good. But I'm not counting, I swear.

Open eyes, find head on flannel, cue twang of pain.

I woke up this morning with the indentation of a four-hole shell button on my temple from where my head was pressed on Daniel's shirt all night. Daniel, who was still wearing said shirt, who slept sitting up on my couch with one hand on my head, the other on my shoulder, feet up on the coffee table, woke up at once. He swore a rainbow of agony to the skies when I asked him if he could even move. I slept semi-upright, my face dragging down the front of his shirt slightly, jammed in between the arm of the couch and his legs.

Schuyler, the bright one, had wandered down the hall and crashed on Ben's bed. Said he felt great this morning while Daniel and I managed to be civilized to each other over coffee and bagels with murder in our eyes.

Why didn't you wake me up?

I couldn't just leave you there.

Why not? It's my house.

You might get cold...or something. I don't know.
Schuyler raised his eyebrow and went back to being invisible behind the paper.

Daniel, what in the hell is going on?

He asked me to b-

OH MY GOD. Ben asked you to babysit me?

No, he just asked me to keep an eye on you.

You could have gone down the hall. Everything is fine.

Yeah, well.

Well...what?

There's something that keeps people from doing that, Bridge.

What do you mean? The global fear of the narcoleptic among you?

Exactly.

Huh?

You look really pretty when you sleep, Bridge.

I don't even believe you.

What?

You just confirmed that you're one hundred percent related to Ben.

Did you ever doubt that before?

Sometimes, yes.

The lack of nail polish?

Exactly.
Ben thought it was hilarious, and confirmed if I had to assuage my needs for affection on anyone, it should be Dan. He said Dan and Schuy could probably serve all sorts of needs of mine but thankfully he had to go before elaborating. Good, I didn't want to have to hang up on him anyway.

He meant shopping needs, for all the perverts out there. Ben doesn't really like to go shopping and it's been a bone of contention between us.

Brando.

I don't think very much beats a good curry, DVDs of The Wild One and Mutiny on the Bounty, and macking on Daniel without fear of anything but reciprocation.