I don't do red wine so well. Goodnight,

B is for birdbrain.

I am lingering over coffee this morning, sitting at my desk looking at the new offerings on Coach, reading about Atlanta's goalie and marveling that our Thanksgiving week will see the rescue of miners trapped in Chile (except for that one guy with the wife AND the girlfriend who discovered each other at the site). Because sometimes I skim the headlines and sometimes I let the sand flood into my nose and ears because I can only focus my energies on being a good mother, wife and friend and really the remainder of the solution to the world's problems are something that can be solved with money. The hard part is keeping that money clean and out of the hands of the corrupt.

Good luck to you, if you are so idealistic as to think otherwise.

(No worries. I have no illusions as to how uneducated, unwordly and unsophisticated I am. You don't need to email me to tell me these things. I hear them every single day.)

What I would like today is this cup of coffee to remain bottomless, and I would also like a Ferris wheel in the middle of the woods so that I would know what it feels like to be a falling leaf. Dipping, swirling on the wind, floating gently to the floor of the forest path in pure silence. Ferris wheel music is an abomination, though over the years they have changed from circus standards to classic rock and I'm not sure if that's an improvement or just an intrusion. Mostly I think the quiet wheels are best but you need to experience it to understand what I mean.

You have to know the right people, and you have to ride the wheel in the dark after all the customers have left but before all the lights are shut down. It's worth it. Bonus points if you can see the beach as you approach the top.

Double bonus points if anyone actually appreciates my Saturday morning rambles besides Dalton. Triple bonus points if you think you're so amazing that you judge me for admitting that I don't pay attention to reality and you can actually fault me for it at this point in my life.

Saturdays are our Sundays, I believe. The whole day is a blank slate. Kind of like my brain.

The inadequate navigator.

Up until this point I figured I was ready to head back to routine. Fall. Working. That weird space between Thanksgiving and Christmas when you are existing between turkeys and decorations and fitting in a little Halloween fun and shopping for gifts and mostly trying to keep warm.

I have struggled to write while Ben is home. Having very little luck. I sleep less when he's home and tend to fight more to get the standard household chores done. Part of his time off involved casting aside responsibility and demands for doing absolutely nothing at all.

And then tonight he says he had the best break ever and I trumped him and broke myself.

I don't want him to return to work. I don't want to miss him. I don't want to go back to feeling like I am alone in the world and counting the hours until he returns to me safe and sound. I want to keep him here so I can throw myself into his arms whenever I want for a kiss or a hug. So I can make him lunch and wake him up. So I can be with him.

Time is so short. I don't care if you get it. I get it and I don't like it. And weirdly the whole episode of winter without him only served to make me more clingy and less capable. Sure I can do what needs to be done but I don't want to. I will scream in fear as I'm doing it and shut my eyes tightly and when it is over for the moment the tears will come. Relief. Frustration. Agony. Pick something. Pick nothing. I get annoyed when people infringe on our time. I am sad when the evening ends and we have to sleep at last. I am frustrated that he has to go back to real life because I'm not finished spending time with him yet in this fantasy world where our days are our own.

I am always stopped short just as I settle in. I am always left behind in the grand scheme of things, with a map I can't read and directions I can't seem to follow. What is crystal-clear to others is a confusing jumble to me written in another language. I can't do this. I can't exist in the present and I can't plan for the future. I can't read this compass because it's spinning. Spinning wildly from N to E to S and back again, twitching onto W and becoming a blur as the hot sting of tears push out from under my eyes once more. You can tell me I'm approaching foolish but interestingly enough you can't point me back toward common sense.

It isn't even on the map. They lied.

Ben is traveling by memory and I am following him by heart.

Passive Aggression.

The past few days have been a little busy. Company arriving and leaving, concerts, driving (oh, so much driving), trying and not really wanting to plan for the upcoming Thanksgiving break and also trying and not really wanting to wrap up Ben's final days off because then it means he'll have to go back to playing for others and mostly he would prefer to play for me now.

I did get a turkey. And gravy and stuffing and potatoes and carrots and a cake. Because what is a holiday that doesn't have cake?

Wait a minute, what is a day that doesn't have cake? Cake should be a requirement, like hugs and brushing your teeth. Oh, hugs are not a requirement in your day? Too bad. I feel sorry for you now.

And literally EVERY single time I sit down at the computer New-Jake starts talking to me. Poor thing is starved for attention. He is very very good at hugs, however, and so it's difficult to find fault with him.

(More about him another day because presently he is talking to me, and when he isn't talking, Ben is reading to me from the paper. Both of them somehow are failing to notice the laser beams shooting out of my eyes. I need to work on being less subtle, I guess. There's a cosmic joke in there somewhere. I would extricate it but I can't even think with all these words zinging around over my head.)

Last night? Mastodon. Deftones. Alice in Chains. It was glorious. It was a little confusing. Burned my ears from the first song and had a hard time adjusting to the volume and so I found myself tugging on Ben's hand to confirm the songs I think I was hearing but really Change (In the house of lies) and Your Decision were huge standouts. I've always wanted to see AIC in concert, the rest was just icing. I'm so very glad we went but I will be grateful tonight for a little sleep as we had a seven a.m. airport call this morning for our company and so we were up seemingly before most people were into their sleep cycles proper (because again with the driving. This city is spread all over the west coast, I tell you. We drive for HOURS every week.)

So not fair but again, totally worth it.

I wish I could have cake right this second but I think it would be rude. I don't know. I can't keep my train of thought. I'm giving up. Maybe tomorrow I can write before Jake wakes up, though I don't believe he sleeps at all, I just think he switches to a whisper to be polite and keeps on talking twenty-four hours a day.

Of course, now I'll also find out if he's reading my journal.

Score.

(Also, please excuse mistakes, I'm in the process of running screaming from the house and can't be bothered.)

Resuscitation.

Leave the truck, someone will lock it. Jump along on one bare foot while removing the other shoe and then sigh audibly as you slog along slowly through the warm sand.

Sand is the magic carpet that transports you to another universe where there are no budgets, telephones or traffic jams. No grumbling bellies and no rain.

Unless you want rain, but you always seem to prefer sweater-weather. It's a guarantee the beach will be empty.

Plow straight ahead until you reach water and then venture back five or six feet to walk along the edge of the firmer sand where the shells and the seaglass rise to the top in the tide.

A small handful is collected within seconds.

Smile for a picture. It's a beach, you're a Bridget. This is what we do. String you out until you've had enough and then bring you here to recharge. Fill up those green eyes again. Stuff your lungs with salt air and you can have a talk with that seagull and damn, no one will call you crazy because this is your turf.

Yours.

There's a rock shaped like a heart, and there's a broken seashell. Yuck, the seaweed looks just like your hair did in 2002 when you dyed it green for Henry's kindergarten Halloween party and it never came out. Hey, Bridge. Here's more glass. Put it in your pocket. Hey. You with me? Heh. It smells good, doesn't it?

When you am finished your daydream you look up and Ben is at the other end of the beach. So far away he's a tiny dot. You laugh because in real life up close Ben is huge and you generally have conversations with the pockets on his flannel shirt instead of his face. You contemplate calling him but he is intent and you don't want the ugliness of a ringing phone to spoil any of this for him either.

You jump up and down and wave instead.

He sees you and lifts his arm in response. You begin to walk toward him. He is taking his time so when you reach him you're still far away from where you started. He takes your hand and slows you down, passing you another handful of seaglass. You are delighted.

You slowly make your way back to the truck. Every step is a burden, every stumble a reminder that you are going in the wrong direction.

You shake your head. No, we're not supposed to be leaving. Wasn't the whole point of coming out here to stay here? On the sand? By the sea? Why are they breaking your heart? You don't want to go home. You don't want to come out here twice a season, You'd rather come twice a day.

Be realistic, Bridget. The world doesn't stop for you.

But it does here. That's the rub. The world does stop when I am here.

Only for you, baby girl. Only for you.

You try to breathe in as much as you can, see as much as you can remember and take away everything your pockets will hold. The shore will wait. The problem is, it just doesn't keep.

(For a minute I was jealous, but really, this opens up a whole new world.)

Today reminds of a day from four years ago, as the boys have made up now and all is well.

Ben was coming home from eighty-something days on the road. I had spoken with him through three airports and he had agreed to dump his stuff, shower and then come straight over for a meal and to say hello and then and only then he could go back to his horrid little filthy chaotic apartment and sleep for four days, as is customary when Ben would get off tour.

He knew I was dying to see him. I was so excited. I was waiting in the front porch. For forty-five minutes. Because showering? I know what Ben does in the shower. It's a thing of beauty to watch. His shampoo is multi-purpose.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

There's his car! (He had a car back then. This was before his big Ford trucks came into our lives and never left.)

He's walking up the sidewalk. Oh my God! He looks awesome. Thin and tired but awesome. His hair is so long! Wow.

I open the door, smile plastered from ear to ear.

He walks up the steps, smiles briefly and says Hey, princess.

And he walks in straight past me to the living room where Jacob is reading in his chair and grabs his whole head, kissing him on the mouth. Jacob, never one to refuse affection, reached up and pulled Ben right into his lap where they proceeded to make out for several minutes until I started making very loud obnoxious protest noises and I think PJ choked on pure air. This was designed to make me laugh. I hate it when the boys are away. I make such a fuss when they come back. Not this kind of fuss, mind you.

It was probably the funniest, most surprising display I think I have ever seen. Or so I thought.

Ben repeated it this morning with Lochlan, after having left the house for an hour. Lochlan complied. In spades.

Ben has trumped himself, as if it were possible.

(And hot. Wow.)

I didn't protest. I think I could watch that any day.

Ha. Ben just called to me to see if he could come out now.

Castles in the air.

They managed to stop arguing long enough to stand outside the school chatting with the principal as we picked up the children from school. Big night. An extra ten people due for dinner, which meant twenty extra arms to hold us close and twenty to hold them apart.

Oh, wait. Eighteen. One was totally gunning for Ben and Lochlan to go crashing through the kitchen windows, locked in a struggle to the death, doomed to be dashed into the sea below our house.

Oh, can't you just picture it? Maybe add in laser beams for eyes and yes, I invited the devil Caleb and every moment there is unrest in my life his heart beats fast with anticipation. He gets off on my pain. He always has. It isn't my beauty that is his drug, it's my misery.

Beauty is a perk, like free parking or cake that is not only cake, but also warm cake.

I did not serve cake for dessert. I didn't have dessert planned, since these boys will stuff themselves full of pasta and garlic bread until they are forced to shove off from the table like they are boats at a shallow launch. Caleb will leave food still on his plate as he is usually deeply engaged in conversation with someone. Ruth will do the same, as it seems to run in the family, words taking precedence over just about everything else.

Big subjects were glossed on, because that's how I wanted to roll and everyone was fine with that.

Except for Benjamin.

And Lochlan too.

Benjamin turned to Caleb with an evil smile. That same one he'll give just before a table is upended. I shot him my death ray stare and he stopped smiling but continued on his chosen tack.

Smoke?

Sure.

Loch?

Yeah.

I put my hands over my eyes. I get it now. They're going to throw Caleb into the sea. Wait, why the hell am I covering my eyes? I should be selling tickets and calling the networks to bring their helicopters so they can televise this epic moment.

(Forgive the gallows humor. I'm possibly the only person in the world who can be excused for using it.)

PJ makes a move to stand up and go outside with them but Chris loudly points out that he wonders where PJ is going since PJ doesn't smoke. A little bit of uneasy laughter follows and then I change the damn subject. If they want to toss Caleb off the cliff then fine. They'll both go to jail. I will categorically self-destruct.

I opt to leave my eyes covered. Daniel puts his arms around me and tells me to relax, they're all reasonable men. I look up, shooting the death-ray stare at him instead. He concedes that he must have had too much to drink and is blathering.

I am beginning to flutter and wonder if I should sit on my hands or just let all of my fearful untapped anxiety spread all over everything when the back door opens and I count three men return to the kitchen. Okay, so I'll keep it all inside for now.

Caleb crosses to me and bestows a light peck on my cheek.

I need to run, princess. Busy day tomorrow. Call when you have a moment and I can get the details for Henry's days from you.

I nod. Why isn't he dead? I would have done it. In a heartbeat. In less than one, actually. While I am fantasizing about quick numbers and quicker deaths he makes his exit, quickly calling a goodbye to all and hugging the children, who are heading up to bed.

We're so civilized sometimes. The lawyers would be proud. What a farce.

The door closes and we hear the footsteps walk to the edge of the verandah and then a moment later the 350z quietly purrs to life. Ben bursts out laughing. Lochlan is grinning but he has his hand over his mouth.

What did you do?

Showed him the moonlight on his brother's plaque. That's all. He is smiling wider now. Sweetly. Motherfucker.

And what did you do? I turned to Lochlan to see what hand he had in all this.

I didn't do anything. If Ben drops him off the cliff and goes to jail, I get you to myself. The way things should be.

Oh well, it was a short reprieve anyway. The fists came out and they went to the floor and those eighteen hands pulled them apart and sent them literally to their rooms. I know they act like children. It never occurred to me that I could ground them for it.

Life just became so much more interesting.

No object.

August is sitting here drawing pictures of me while I am forced to be stuck inside while Ben and Lochlan sit out in the backyard on the patio where the ocean is so close one can taste it. Why? They're having a DISCUSSION and mostly that means the words will soon turn into fists and no one wants me there because maybe I'll get caught in the crossfire or maybe I might have something to say or maybe I won't say anything and I don't know which is worse.

Really if Ben wants to put a stop to everything all he has to do is throw Lochlan off the cliff. There. Done. Case closed. Only he won't because he knows I would follow. At a flat run, no less.

What I would like is for them both to just stand back and be generous.

Not with each other, just with me. Like they used to be. You know when you really want someone to do something or believe in something, you make it sound as if it is the most wonderful thing in the whole wide world. It's only later when they are fully involved that they see the downside, the dark truth behind the glossy facade. That's what they did.

This is bullshit. I can run faster than August. I could probably be on the patio before he's even out of his chair.

54321 (Nightwatch).

(Don't.)

Ben and I were in the living room. The fire was low, the lights were off. I was tucked into Ben's arm while his free hand traced my ears, lips, nose, forehead. His eyes are so black, it's as if they grow larger when it's dark. It's beautiful. It's frightening. His breathing is even. He doesn't seem tired. I am falling asleep staring at him. He could do this for hours. He will regularly do this for hours, as if he is memorizing my features. One finger across my eyelashes and then down my cheek. Under my jaw and then he leans in for a kiss. An endless one in which I need to relax completely and breathe through him or not breathe at all.

His skin is cool. He is gentle, no razorburning tonight. Time has stopped moving. The stars have fixed into place in the sky and everything has fallen away. I go to whisper something and his hand returns to my face as he pulls away to look at me. He quiets me and then rubs his thumb across my bottom lip and my brain begins to fight. Putting Jacob in his place. A shattery-slick doubling of Ben's image that briefly turns to blonde and then I struggle to bring it back again. The image locks on Ben once more. I take a sudden, deep breath and he tightens his hold on me and returns to his quiet explorations. Earlobe. Hairline. The white-line scar under my nose.

I feel his whole body tense and then I realize we're not alone and I look up, upside down and see Lochlan standing in the door, bathed in light from the foyer, red curls damp and shining.

Leave us. A growl from Ben. It's not a request, it's an order. His possessiveness is incredible to me. Sometimes it is larger than life. Sometimes it is nowhere to be found. I have not seen the pattern yet, it simply depends on the day. It depends on the weather and it depends on the moment. This is one of them.

Lochlan chuckles. I know that sound. That's his challenge. His I-can't-believe-you-think-I'm-going-to-do-what-you-ask laugh. Incredulous, but then he holds out his helmet in a mock salute and heads out into the hallway again, slamming the door behind him. I am just being held into another kiss when I hear the motorcycle roar off, up the mountain. Away from me.

Lochlan does that on purpose. Night drives because he knows I will remain half-awake. He never cared if I slept. The others would stand guard, count hours, demand to see the dark circles and then admonish me endlessly for my poor sleeping, concern taking a front seat to everything else. Lochlan always told me when I would sit, wide-eyed, counting stars while he drifted off, that when I got tired enough I would sleep and until then worrying about it would only make it worse.

Early in the morning in total darkness when Ben sleeps he'll let go and I will startle awake again, needing to see if Lochlan ever came home. I will tiptoe down the quiet halls and through rooms until I arrive at his closed door. I will never knock. When I am satisfied that he is safe, home and present then I will sleep. And only then. In Lochlan's arms wrapped tight around me but facing away from him, toward the window, a soft breeze touching my face, dreaming of Ben. This is the time I am given that is my own, without question.

Lochlan does not need to memorize my features, he already knows them so well. Nostalgia serves as the axiom for his emotions and the rules are set by the circus as always. Don't get comfortable. Pulling up stakes is a daily event. He is too worn out from work to see to it that I sleep, so never mind, here, give guard to someone more capable because you're a walking hazard at this point.

A kiss on the same cheek traced by his friend and I slip away when the sun comes up. Back to my life, away from the past.

I return to the present and climb under the quilts and Ben holds his arms out. I am flush against him and his hand cradles my head. Stay with me, he whispers in his sleep. I am captive, unable to even nod and so I remain still, my arms wrapped around his neck, trying to will my still-warm flesh to transfer heat to him. He is cool still, exhausted and unable to fight in his dreams.

I will stay awake and fight for him, too. I'm not sure if their terrors are alive or dead though. Probably both. Just like mine.