Echolocations.

The rain poured down in sheets and ribbons all day. The ground was soaked. The trees dripped and umbrellas were almost useless against the endless deluge. But today was the final day of peace and relative quiet before March break begins and other than baking and icing cupcakes, I spent most of the day on the big shag carpet in the library, spread out on my back on the floor, my head resting on the small of Lochlan's back as he lay on his stomach, elbows propped.

Reading.

It was nice.

I almost fell asleep once, book falling in slow motion to the floor beside my head instead of onto my face (for once) but then he sneezed and I said Bless you but I was so gone it came out like bleshoom and he said thanks and turned another page as my eyes closed once more.

Okay to go.

After a brief and cordial breakfast a couple of weeks ago to meet Sam's boyfriend, we haven't seen much of either of them. Nothing at all, actually, until today when they managed to coordinate a morning off together and I invited them for breakfast here, a risky but inevitable prospect, depending on the day.

Risky because you just never know when Lochlan is looking to have it out with someone or Caleb might be milling about randomly making people burst into flames. Sam's boyfriend is so very precious to him we are working on showing him our best sides.

Shut up. I'm really trying, for Sam's sake. Besides, I was excited to actually talk to the guy. Busy, noisy diners are not conducive to getting to know someone. This morning I got to know Matthew. Except he likes to be called Matt and he is so much like Sam the server at the diner had asked if they were brothers and I kept trying to see what was different.

Up close there are all sorts of small infractions that prevent a twins declaration. Namely, Matt is a bit of a clotheshorse. He appeared in a vintage mint-green dress shirt with pearl buttons and perfectly creased khaki pants. Slim leather belt, matching shoes and matching Coach laptop-manbag. Tortoiseshell glasses. Perfect hint of beard. Ben leaned way over and whispered in my ear as they were hanging up their coats that he had no idea hipsters were viable life partners and I had to bite my tongue not to laugh at that. I poked him hard and he straightened up instantly.

Sam is so...not a clotheshorse. Sam is grad-student chic, which means he's still carting around a fraying messenger bag he bought in 1998 and he may or may not wear his jeans eleven or twelve days in a row just because they look okay (I think he got that from Ben, frankly). They are two sizes too big and he wears a belt that has a brass buckle with a map of Poland on it.

Sam has never been to Poland. He doesn't know anyone who has visited Poland either.

Don't get me wrong, Sam is adorable. But he's not one to iron. Or do laundry. Or buy anything that matches. He doesn't actually shop at all, to tell you the truth.

Matt and Ben were introduced proper and Matt made all the right impressions. He knew of Ben. He thanked both of us for having him over. He was so charming I wanted to go upstairs and kick Duncan and tell him that if he could do Matthew-charming, the world would be his oyster, but I kept my pointy toes to myself and discovered instead that Matt is a scientist. An environmental scientist.

Whatever that is.

I refrained from making Contact jokes the entire morning. Oh yes I did. (Science versus religion? Get it? Matt can be Jodie Foster, Sam can be Matthew McConaughawt).

Matt is too bright for my table, mostly dismissing work talk in favor of talking about everything else. We covered world travels, motorcycles, death and decay, home-baked versus store-bought, strikes and the weather. We took him down to show him the beach and the yacht club that's going in (because it's a behemoth and a mess and I don't want to call it anything else) and we introduced him to Dalton, who wandered through the kitchen in a t-shirt and boxer shorts with his face in a bowl of raisin bran around eleven, and we answered truthfully when he asked practiced, polite and incredibly objective questions about the collective. He was genuinely curious. I can tell the difference now.

Ben offered him a lifetime membership but remember Ben is absolutely incorrigible and a sucker for a cute boy.

Bridget, because there's a first for everything, left her charm upstairs in the bureau drawer and went for submissive and shy instead of whatever it is that I usually do that people complain about.

Then Matt started to talk about Tchaikovsky and Mendelssohn and then I couldn't contain myself and chirped out a whole bunch of questions and learned that he listens to everything and is incredibly knowledgeable about all kinds of different music.

Then it all made perfect sense to me. Music. Shared love of most of the people I know. On a solid par with the fair and drawing pictures and cake. The holy quad of awesome, in my mind.

As I sat and watched them talk, without mistakenly forcing the attention to myself, without spellbinding them with my own charm, I saw something wonderful. They listened with admiration and pride as the other told a story or related some little moment. They touched each other often, holding hands, squeezing shoulders. They looked so at ease with each other that it made me jealous that they are developing a love free of protagonists, villains and strife. Free of drama. Free of grief and regret always tilting the balance the wrong way.

It made me profoundly sad and I got quieter still until Ben slid his chair back to the corner where I sat staring at my tea leaves wondering what they say because I don't speak tea, and he put his arm around me and asked if I felt okay. When I looked up at him, two ghosts stood behind him, one with concern and one with smugness for expressions and I nodded and said I was a little tired today. Matt took that the right way and made a move to leave. I didn't want them to leave. I wanted to stay right there in the chair and watch them interact with each other and the world around them and I wanted to write down how they did it so I could study and practice it later and maybe get it right. I wanted to film it so I could parrot it in the mirror and I wanted it to never ever end.

But since it was practically lunchtime and Sam had to go to work (he starts at noon on most Thursdays and works until eight or nine in the evening) and Matt had a dentist appointment scheduled for right after lunch to make the most of his day off, they made their departure, each planting a kiss on my cheek and shaking hands with Ben. Sam told me to get some sleep. He glared it, I should say, because he knows I am prone to the whims of the night. I dismissed his concern because it wasn't valid under the circumstances. We all promised to get together Sunday night for a little bit of jazz in the sanctuary, after the evening service wraps up. I am told Matt's collection of vinyl rivals some of my boys.

Then Matt and Sam looked at each other and they both said Ready? at the exact same time. They went through the door and Ben saw them safely out the drive, hit the button for the gate once they were clear in their truck and then he came inside grinning from ear to ear and we both said Awww at the same time and burst out laughing.

Days like today are worth sharing.

(Oh the whores you will find, when reading online!)

I feel like Dr. (or maybe that's Mrs.) Seuss tonight.

Oh the things I could say!
Since you won't go away!
We live life without rules,
Sure we're nobody's fools!
But just look deep inside
There is no place to hide!
You must stand in the light!
You'll put up your BEST fight!

Yes, I made that up. Lochlan's not the only one who can spin a good poem albeit it's been a while since I heard from his giant neverending book of perpetual mermaid poetry (example here). Maybe he dropped it in the bathtub and the pages are too wavy and waterlogged to see any longer.

Maybe hell will freeze over and the whole world will cease waiting for me to stop being so obvious.

Oh, good luck with that, all of you, and while you're here if you stay long enough you'll witness my so-not-PG lapdance. Who's the recipient, you ask? Well, does it really matter? You'll just fill in your own assumptions and your own depravities and I don't even need to be here, now, do I?

Go on, I'll wait while you pull yourself the fuck together. Don't forget to straighten your puritan hems. You know what they say, after all. Don't ever assume you have all the facts, or all the information, names, situations, requirements, rules, or gumption to think you understand my life because you don't.

I write fragments. Altercations, moments, memories, wishes, dreams and the odd little funny bit (to placate my mother, since she has the vapors over what I usually write) and the rest, as far as you must understand it, is off-limits. I'm not going to entertain email demands for more, I'm not going to confirm and deny, I'm not going to do any more than make you understand that...

that...

What you see is what you get. Trust me, I didn't expect it to turn out this way either.

Creep calm and carry on.

(I take no credit for the title, it's on Ben's t-shirt, complete with a picture of his face. It was sent to him. He adores it.)

Sooner or later the tides will be back here
Returning for ever and changing everything
Now that all the good islands have sunk down into the ocean
We're deeper than you know

I'm playing more emo music and Ben is bored out of skull, reading a book, sprawled out on the couch. Again, this man takes up more physical area than anyone I have ever met. He has this way of spreading out all over a piece of furniture and that means he's relaxed. It's fun. I could throw myself into his vicinity and he would swallow me up in his arms and chew on my hair and keep me there, humming into my skull until I guess the song.

It would not be this Post-Britpop, however. He would stick to soft death metal and things I really love like Tool and Type-O, Gojira and Metallica. He would be so pleased when I name the band and the album. It's like some sort of hearing therapy for me if you ask him, because I spent half of yesterday listening to songs that I could not make out the words too and I was irritated, frustrated to the point where I returned to Lochlan's smaller, obscure but clear pop collection.

His head has started to nod. I love watching him fall asleep while he reads. The moment Ben slows down it's as if the oxygen is sucked out of the room and he is lights out. Maybe it's a circulation thing because he's so tall or maybe he is just getting old (HAHAHA) and starting to finally relax but when he sits down he sometimes nods off. Or maybe my narcolepsy is rubbing off. Maybe he's just tired. We stay up so late sometimes.

Maybe I'm just bored, he says suddenly, his voice thick with sleep. I jump through the ceiling. I wish people would stop doing that.

How did you know I was just writing about you?

You're smiling. What else could you be doing?

Masters of allusion.

We wait, watching the server pour coffee around the table, clockwise. She is efficient and professional and I don't watch as she struggles to place their faces. I feign boredom, looking out the window as early workers hurry down the snowy sidewalk to their offices. I didn't think it snowed here in March. I guess I was wrong.

So you never told him.

Both Ben and Lochlan break into comical grins. I roll my eyes.

It was none of his business. It's none of YOUR business.

It helps me to be informed if I am to keep an eye on him.

I can do that from home.

Yes, Bridget, you're doing a fantastic job. As are you. He glares at Ben. Ben's grin slides to the floor and he slouches out in his chair. He's taking up about six square feet of space at this point. He scratches his ear and shrugs.

You can't play both sides.

Lochlan nods, looking from me to Ben and back again. I feel like a child who stole a cookie and I try to take responsibility by speaking up. It's not his fault.

No, it's mine. It's too easy sometimes to overlook common sense and just give her what she wants. Ben glances from my ring to Lochlan.

That's never a good idea with Bridget, Lochlan tells him, missing the gentle dig entirely.

Hello? I'm sitting right here. I sit up in my chair so I am taller and Batman laughs out loud.

You three are so beyond convention. You tell me my life is skewed? It's nothing like what I see here.

Ben sits up again too. But it works. For the most part anyway.

Lochlan and I both nod.

Yes but leaving huge gaping surprises for people to discover doesn't help matters. When were you going to tell him?

When hell froze over. I didn't want him making any more trouble than he already does. It comes out in a near-whine and I struggle to compensate with regular word-sounds.

Bridget, don't forget you perpetuate that trouble as much as he does.

I'm working on it. Head down, playing with the spoons. There are five of them, all told. What sort of meal needs five spoons? I think I've topped out at three. Distractions are good, right?

Can you work harder?

Yes.

I can't hear you, Bridget.

YES.

If you do that, then I have room to help you. Otherwise my hands are tied.

Better yours than mine, I mutter under my breath.

What was that?

Nothing, I tell him.

He stands up and comes around to my side of the table, planting a hard kiss on top of my head. I heard it anyway and I agree. Do you think you can get through the remainder of this week without going looking for trouble?

Yes. I tell him. He leans over the table to shake hands with Ben and with Loch too and then he's gone and I watch his perfect form exit the near-empty dining room. We stand to leave as well. Lochlan pulls my chair back and reaches into my pocket, digging out the smallest silver spoon and replacing it on the table. I turn and follow him out, fishing into his pocket, pulling out the same-sized spoon. We would never actually leave with the items, it's just practice.

Ben does not participate in this. In addition to overlooking common sense, his method of concealment would be to eat the spoons. Then it would take so much longer to get them back. We can't have that, we're busy trying to keep up appearances around here.

Apparently it's working.

Rituals.

They square off in the front hall on Saturday afternoon. Lochlan refuses to allow me to go. He found the envelope in my bag. He opened it and instead of his usual mere outrage, the inclusion of his name on the invitation brought him to a whole new level of fury. He confronts Caleb quietly as Caleb is checking in with Henry after lunch. Quietly because they always keep their violence civilized when the children are home. Caleb, ever unruffled, tells Lochlan that he should come along and then maybe for once, he could save me.

***

Dinner goes smoothly. Caleb has the servers bring the children ginger ale in champagne glasses and whatever else they want. He chats over their heads with Ben and Chris and Dalton. He generously asks me how Batman is doing. He talks a little about a new plan to dabble in venture capitalism. We are celebrating, for everyone loves a birthday. Once the main course winds down we make our traditional remarks and personal toasts. You can take five minutes or thirty. You can make it a wish or a hope or a memory or a story. You cannot pass. No one's ever passed and yet Lochlan's absence is felt, a glaring cold spot where his arm would be loosely hung around the back of my chair, and he would put on his showman's hat and everyone would feel at ease. Tonight his choice not to attend is a particular display of rebelliousness after our conversations of last week.

I make my toast first. Caleb's eyes well up briefly. A quick recovery and he applauds my words as everyone raises a glass. I drink and take my seat. If only time could go backwards. He could have saved me too.

But he is more interested in exploiting everything. I watch him while he listens to the others. I watch his expressions change and overlap and he comes around to stare back at me across the table so many times I wonder if he is tuning out the words as well but he isn't or his expressions would stop chang-oh, yes, just like that. I tear my eyes away and look at Ben, who brings his arm up loosely across the back of my chair. But I can't get warm. I look down into my lap at my phone. There are nine calls from Lochlan. None have gone to voicemail.

***

We come home and get the children tucked in to bed, lights off, doors pulled just-so and then we send off all of the others too. I laugh at Duncan, he is positively shitfaced and he tells me to be careful before closing his door clumsily in my face. I frown at the painted panels. I look toward Lochlan's door but it is closed tightly, lights off underneath, not a sound from within when I press my ear very hard against it to check.

Ben said he would meet me at the boathouse, that he was going to go ahead and talk a little business with Caleb, something that drives me to total frustration outside of standard hours so I am grateful. He gave me a kiss and told me not to take long.

I changed into a different dress, fixed my lipgloss and unpinned my hair. Then I put my phone on the charger, checked the kids once more to make sure they were asleep already and that sober-Dalton's door was cracked just enough to keep an ear out and then I passed through the rest of the house, turning off lights, checking doors and windows, taking my keyring as I went out the side door, locking it behind me.

I was halfway across the driveway when Lochlan stepped out from the trees along the edge of the woods. I think I must have jumped fifty feet and then some, heart restarted on the way back down, nerves blown, mind recuperating in slow-motion, all of my thoughts scattered in the night.

If you need me to fight for you, I will. If you need me to protect you, I'm here. But you can't put yourself in danger on purpose, peanut.

I didn't!

I know you didn't.

Then why do you make me go through everything alone? I turn away and walk deliberately until I reach the steps. When I turn back he is gone.

***

Caleb refills my glass for the third time with whiskey. Neat. Straight. Burn. Slip into the void. Forget everything, dollface. He tells me some things never change. I nod dizzily and stare at him. They don't. Everyone resolved to change and do better and try harder and yet I'm still screaming out safe words in the dead of night, words that will be ignored as always.

Where is Ben? I asked him finally. I'm annoyed. I'm also drunk now. Great.

He slipped back to the house to fetch some paperwork to show me. He'll be back in a few moments.

He starts to pull my rings off, to put in the little dish on the table because he will not touch me with them on and pauses as he exchanges them from his right hand to his left.

Bridget. What is this?

He holds up a simple band, far shinier than the others and my throat closes over in panic. I forgot to take it off when I changed. I didn't want him to see it.

Who gave you this ring?

I'm not answering. I forgot. I didn't prepare a speech for this moment. I have no sweet remarks, no toast to my own efforts at massive and total defection from the crowded position of neutral. My pokerface wasn't in the box when I was opened and constructed. I don't lie, I just freeze.

The door opens and Caleb starts to turn around. Maybe Ben can shed a little light on this develop-

Lochlan is standing there.

Come on, Bridget. Get your things, we're going.

She's here to celebrate with me, for my birthday. Caleb sounds like Henry when he wants to argue an immature point.

It's one in the morning. Your birthday is over. And the ring came from me.

Guaranteed returns (birthday eve).

The shot really blew your mind
Truly out of sight
And she cried for only a week or two
Then left the tears behind
And we froze feeling like mystery
On a misty road
In the dark filling the holes with love
Just to pass the time

It was already beginning to show curses from years ago
And the ocean is already parted
Will you take a walk
Walk with me now?

And danger averted us as it slowed me down
And it flashed in rhythm with my surprise
It never let me down
But it tried and i looked into its eyes
Then we said goodbye
There's a world balancing two designs
I can understand

I went shopping with Daniel all morning and ran some errands while he sniffled and coughed endlessly. I tried on jeans. I bought three designer handbags for pennies at a vintage store. I drove in the rain, peering out into the grey from behind the windshield of the Range Rover because I love driving other people's cars and Schuyler doesn't mind. I paid cash for things and I hummed all morning because I have lyrics stuck in my head, wedged tightly in between a listed hierarchy of boys in this house and my grandmother's recipe for cinnamon rolls.

I changed for my lunch date with Caleb, into the killer heels and the black and blush-pink dress he likes most. I put my hair up because he likes it up and then I put on lip gloss and mascara because that's all any of them like and I asked the mirror why I care what he wants to see anyway. She didn't answer fast enough and I couldn't wait anymore, I had to go.

When I arrived he was waiting for me, having driven his car here because of some meetings downtown this morning, while I was picked up and delivered by Mike, someone who was re-hired and relocated when I took John back from the Devil. Mike is someone I still steadfastly refuse to speak to anymore (after his guardianship in the Prairies turned distinctly stalkerish and he couldn't be called off) so I had my headphones in my bag and I put those in and didn't take them out until we were across the bridge and he opened the car door in front of the restaurant, umbrella in hand. I thanked him by name. I'm only a little bit of a monster, after all.

Caleb told me I looked beautiful and that he had already ordered for us. That's alright, I already called ahead to order a birthday cake slice for him with a candle for dessert. They frowned over the phone, this is not a place like Boston Pizza or The Keg where the staff will come out en masse and sing to the birthday celebrant. No, here the chef was agog that I would want to ruin his presentation with a wax candle, but based on Caleb's good name and my charm he agreed. Merde, he said and I knew what he meant and laughed.

After Caleb's delighted surprise at the cake, he slid an envelope across the table. It is blackened silver, and blank but sealed. I know what it is. I pick it up and put it in my bag. He pretends not to care, rubbing his face, fresh from a straight-razor shave and a haircut at the barber in his old neighborhood. I start to tell him I will talk to Ben about it and he abruptly says he already has, and he looks forward to tomorrow night. Then he stands up and asks if I want to ride with him back to the house. The surprise shifts back to me and briefly I wonder if he would mind if I put my headphones in. I laugh to myself but my outward smile is instantly mistaken for anticipation. He puts his arm out and I take it. People watch us leave. Then they watch as he takes the key from the valet and opens my door, somehow managing the door, key, umbrella and still a hand for me to balance with when I would have dropped everything by now. He walks around to his side and gets in.

Birthdays are strange, aren't they? he says as he pulls out into traffic. I watch him drive, his profile focused on the road and the lights and the other cars. I used to watch him drive when I was eleven, when he would drive everyone to the lake. Nothing has changed. He still smiles because he knows I'm staring at him. He has tiny lines at the corners of his eyes now. He has to shave every day instead of twice a week. He has a few fine grey hairs mixed in with the brown but only over his ears. The shirt he wears today costs more than his first car did. He'll be forty-nine tomorrow, he was nineteen in that other life before he knew he was the devil. Before I knew he was the devil.

He still reaches out to fuss with the heat and asks the same question he has asked for over thirty years. Warm enough? I nod, still fixated on his face. He keeps the stereo low so I can talk if I want to and I wouldn't had have the courage to take the headphones out of my bag and block him out because I would hurt his feelings and I seem to be incapable of doing that on purpose, instead doing it by accident and sometimes not doing it when I should.

We get to the house and I thanked him by name (monster) and headed toward the side door as he turned and headed toward the boathouse. I know he turned and watched me walk away but I didn't look back, I just felt it. I have things to do. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day. I have a cake to bake for the party tomorrow and I have to ask Ben why he agreed to something he promised he wouldn't agree to anymore. That he said he didn't want anymore and yet we keep going back for more punishment, over and over again. If this is is revenge for the fact that I still keep my little finger curled around dreams of the carnival then he's going about it all wrong.

Running from my last goodbye.

And suddenly it rushed my mind
I couldn't hold it as it moved so high
And I never looked back with the same eyes again

Suddenly I lost my voice
A new second when I had that chance
I saw my eyes
They were filling up with regret
And suddenly a paradise
Sees me running from my last goodbye
I saw my eyes telling you a story again

So I must have been running for miles
Out of my mind
But I never got tired
I must have been wired

And if I ever see her outside
With a letter from home
Well I’m never gonna go
Never gonna go home

He didn't read far enough to catch the parts where I wrote 'without history and 'without rules' because rage blinded him to my words and despair held him back from being able to absorb much of what I spoke of, save for my own death. He won't think about that. Ever.

Just like I don't think about his.

Ever.

Something tells me heaven looks less like my garage and more like Coney Island but don't tell him that, he'll take it as a compliment and rule with his ego instead of his head. There's enough ego around here to offset the empathy and it leaves us dizzy and raw.

So I don't think I'm going to play out the conversations of yesterday. I just grew fresh skin over my open wounds and my heart is freshly sutured, threads caught and ripped by the sharpest teeth, a gentle pat on the back delivered as I am pushed back into the clouds at the top of the cliff and proclaimed 'good as ever' but never 'good as new'.

We had rules. I had to lie about my name and my age and by the time we graduated from gritty midway caravans and endless Ferris wheel rides to the full-on circus and subsequent freak show we were both so used to the rules that we fell into them instantly and easily, though they were no longer required. It's funny how that happens. You get so used to something it becomes as automatic as taking a breath, or stealing a heart.

Huh.

He didn't like the rules but they worked in place of absolute freedom. Some is better than all. All is better than none.

And then Lochlan said a whole bunch of other stuff in a rush and I wound up holding my hand out for the vodka he brought outside but never opened. He struggled to get the cap off with one good hand and then he gave it to me, taking accountability instead of a drink, himself. I chose the drink just to soften the surprise.

And just like that I blink and we enter the next phase of adulthood, the one in which all the words are out now and we're not angry at each other at all.

I took a big huge gulp and then another and was planning on continuing until it was gone but he grabbed it back and said he didn't want us to have this conversation inebriated. Too late, it's burning me from the inside out. No, not the alcohol, the words. I remember everything he said and now I know for sure, he's absolutely never ever wrong.

Lesson learned. Won't make that mistake again.

He was sitting at the island this morning, eyes boring into a cup of black coffee. Not drinking, just staring. Didn't even look up when I walked in, didn't say good morning. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot and when I turned around he said,

I think you mixed up Ben and I in your post yesterday.

Then he stood up and walked out of the room.

Barometers and outros (complete with ocean view).

Early morning
The city breaks
I've been calling
For years and years and years and years
And you never left me no messages
Ya never send me no letters
You got some kind of nerve
Taking all I want

Lost and insecure
You found me, you found me
Lying on the floor
Where were you? Where were you?
Lost and insecure
You found me, you found me
Lying on the floor
Surrounded, surrounded
Why'd you have to wait?
Where were you? Where were you?
Just a little late
You found me, you found me

You will know my grave when you find it, someday. There will be no name and no dates, only song lyrics printed in uneven Traveling Typewriter, set quite small, but maybe not. There will be no flowers, for flowers are wasted on the dead. Hopefully from where you stand you will have your back to the ocean, so that I can see the water even though I won't actually be there, no. Hopefully I'll be in the garage wrapped within black and white wings, hiding in plain view. Hopefully I won't mind. Hopefully it happens faster and less painfully than life does, this thing called death. But for the meantime, as far as I have seen, it doesn't.

I shouldn't hold my breath, should I? Prime real estate on the water doesn't lend itself to keeping souls, only creating them out of sand and seaweed, pressed tightly between the waves and the stones beneath until they resemble something that looks curiously like fossilized melancholy, or a little girl with an fistful of blue cotton candy and a broken heart. The sight of her will break yours. You just think you're tough.

Whatshisface has turned the corner. He has graduated to cast number two and seems to have his emotional footing back underneath him. Instead of seeing him perpetually sprawled on the floor from a decided lack of logic and balance he stands on the fringe again. He is the last person you would expect to be the first to take a risk, but there you have it. Maybe that's how he gets away with so much, that charm and easy quiet that fails to warn your intuition until it is so late it's pitch black and everyone has left. Hypnotism by fire. Don't say I didn't warn you, okay?

In any event, we are just happy he has stopped lashing out at everything and everyone. For the moment I will continue to evade his demands that I fill him in on the rest of my life because I'm busy doing other things, like drawing pictures, listening to music and trying to figure out what the rest of my life is supposed to be.

My current state is flawed, charred and twisted, dented, and rescued. I'm not sure if happiness is a ten-minute ice cream cone eaten in the park or a week without lifting a finger in Ibiza. I don't know if life is about a quick telephone call to someone I haven't talked to in a while or needing everything perfectly in place, clean, folded, pressed, organized and color-coded. Is that when it's finished? You're given your time card to punch out and ordered to choose between Quill and Commercial script?

I don't like those, they look like something you see in a trophy park and oh, that's right that's exactly what they are and How much for a custom font? and Oh, yes, I understand but you see, these deaths are different from every other one you have handled even though everyone must say that and no, I don't want them to look like those trophies because no one has any imagination or any creativity.

I understand the bronze will be tough and durable, but how black can they make it? Will that come off over time, a patina to blind people when the sun comes out?

Okay, good.

Because death blinds me, frankly.

(But what have you learned, Bridget?)

Oh. Do we need to do this today? I'll just rattle them off. Tomorrow they might be different.

Caleb taught me that fear can disguise itself as something else and that I seek it for kicks, sometimes.

Cole taught me that I am stronger than any (or is that every?) man I know.

Andrew taught me that sometimes a cookie is all you have in a relationship and that's okay too.

PJ taught me that a hug can fix absolutely anything, so many hugs can fix everything.

Dalton taught me that it's okay to hate green tea and lie about it for fifteen years running.

Duncan taught me that I love beat poetry and art but that I have no respect for affectations.

Christian taught me to edit. Edit, edit, edit and then edit again.

Joel taught me that even perfectly normal people make huge mistakes too.

August taught me that if it walks like a corpse and talks like a corpse and flips his hair like a corpse, it's probably the corpse's best friend and you should leave well enough alone.

Sam taught me that friends are here to help, no matter what they think.

Daniel taught me that not all men have to be bulletproof, impact-resistant or tough. Some can be so sweet and gentle it's criminal.

Lochlan taught me how to live, how to lie, steal, balance on a tightrope and how I can find comfort in my imagination when there isn't any comfort to be found in reality. He said Life is an adventure, and sometimes adventure isn't warm or safe or even happy but it's adventure, nonetheless. He is right. He's always right. When he isn't losing his mind, that is.

Jacob taught me how to die. (Fucking bastard, I already knew that one.)

Ben taught me how to love. Without rules or history or anything more than love for our own sakes. For that I will be forever grateful, for I would not have known it otherwise. He is still teaching, I am still learning. You won't get rid of us this easily.

I taught myself that what doesn't kill me just goes into the bitter stew and I eat it every day and grow stronger, healthier, even more jaded and completely cracked, too.

I need a blender so I can put it all together and have all the good parts mixed together from all of us and leave out all the bad things like mood swings, electric bills, broken boot laces and arguments. Maybe bad songs, missed goals, abandoned plans and burned toast can go in there too, and cover up the smashed watch that came back in a padded envelope because I asked for it and the blood pressure cuff that I took off an arm and put in the pocket of my sweater before the doctors ran in to save a life that had already been spent.

Maybe these mementos are the worst forms of remembering death instead of life. But maybe I needed their last-touched things because I have the first-touched things already. Maybe I'm not nearly as morbid or ghastly as I seem, maybe it's just that I wasn't ready. I'm ready with dumb things and plans that will never see fruition but blindsided by surprise, always.

Maybe my grave will have my name, simply carved in Times New Roman. Maybe there won't be a grave at all.

Maybe I'll live forever, a fitting sentence for someone who goes to the garage to play truant with the angels when the living are here, ready with their lessons, ready with their songs.