There at the edge of the world right is returned to me, caught on the wind and tucked safely into my arms to remain. I control the weather just as I control their hearts, here by the sea.

Apologies came swiftly once again as we stumbled into yet another year, tripping over words and misguided attempts to repair or replace broken things. Broken things like hearts, minds and promises. Rainy things like moods and nights. Ugly things like jealousy and longing and loneliness.

And we fail but then we get up and run again, clutching that sharp edge so tightly we bleed our souls out so that they run together in a river, marbled, mixed, indistinguishable once more. We finish each others' sentences, comfort each other when there is no light and find that light to pass along, when necessary.

Here at the edge of the world left is the open arms, the open doors, the open minds of that marbled river, the tides rising and falling with need. The hearts breathing like lungs, rising and falling with emotions, sheared clean by that edge once again.

But they grow back.

There at the edge is where she stands. Where she bleeds. Where she cries. Where she grieves. Where she loves.

Shell Jesus.

(Now I want to go to Trolls for dinner.)

You didn't miss last week. What are you talking about? Sam's coffee breath wakes me up completely as I stand in the front hall helping him tie his Windsor knot. He'll never be pulled together. We're practically twins in that. In fact, you told me twice it was boring.

That's why I forgot. Sorry. I kiss his cheek and he heads out the door. I'm still in pajamas, about to have some coffee breath of my own. I'm not going to church, off the hook since I went last week when very few of the boys did. Sam absolved me over an early breakfast and now I'm kicking myself for getting up at all when I could have slept in. I could have slept for hours but Lochlan practically shoved me out of bed.

Go dig some clams for the Lord. 

And he laughed weakly and was asleep again before I had both my legs properly underneath me enough to walk away.

Christian, Andrew, Schuy and Danny represented the point this morning but I'm awake anyway. I make a big cup of coffee and dump some sweetened condensed milk into it before pouring the whole thing into a travel mug and heading for the door. I shrug into my wool wrap and boots and take my cup across the driveway to the stable. It's heated now and completely weathertight so I can leave my art supplies here. I have a small cupboard with a bluetooth speaker on top and all of my paints and sketchbooks are neatly organized inside.

There's a small table and chair and my easel stands in front of the south-facing windows. Lots of light, actually, and a cozy little space to have some time to myself which is something I need but somehow got used to never having as I'm perfectly happy to have someone close by to molest and touch and tickle and just be with. And so I never decompress. One of my Christmas gifts this year was the boys winterizing this, somehow without me knowing. It has electric heat now and better lighting too and I don't have to worry about the pipes for the work sink freezing ever again.

I pull out a tiny canvas board, barely six by four inches, and paint a clam for Lochlan. It's not very good, as I do it from memory but somehow it makes me feel better. They get ideas and we go and do them. I get ideas and I get made fun of. I miss spending time at the water doing things. All we do is walk and talk on the beach these days. There's no building sandcastles or collecting shells. There's rarely swimming. It's always a psychic workload. I've grown to dread the walks just because they involve so much introspection, admission and enlightenment. Ideas to try. Restoration to embark on. Penance to pay. Healing to be done.

Dreading being within touching distance of the ocean, dreading going to it, dreading being near it isn't an association I want to have, ever and I'm angry that it's come to this. I don't want to walk anymore. I'll sit in the fucking library or lie in bed and talk til I'm blue in the face if that's what you want but don't turn the only place where I can breathe into something awful.

When I'm happy with Lochlan's painting I set it aside to dry and work on some other little projects. I'm between ideas so I draw and learn and experiment. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I just putter around and think.

I would stay all day but we have plans so when my phone starts blowing up I collect my mug  and the painting and put my boots back on for the trip across the driveway. I even resent the boots today but bare feet in the winter bring shouts of disapproval and disappointed looks. When I get inside I take the painting to show Lochlan.

Made you something. 

Oh! Hey! This is great! It's a UFO! I like it. Very stylized. 

I nod, mouth set in a line and force a smile. Enjoy. 

I know it's a clam, Bridget. 

How do you know it's a clam? 

The happy face. It totally gives it away. He bursts into laughter. I love it. 

It means you don't have to take me clam-digging. We have one now. 

Jesus. If that's all it takes, paint me a show, Baby.

I can do that. 

Be a lot harder than a mollusk. 

Not really. He was difficult as fuck. I mean, look at him! He has a face!

Not sure my heart HAS cockles, but if it does, they're warm.

Lochlan's only consolation was that Caleb was kind. It brings a strange sort of relief to him when he expects the worst. He was further heartened that Caleb couldn't calm me down, that he doesn't have the range of soothing mechanisms that Lochlan has always had from the first moment, those nurturing, comforting capacities he's only ever denied me once.

Once.

Once is the hard part. The part that keeps him at almost-arms length. The part that makes it so easy to keep Caleb here close enough to touch as some sort of permanent punishment. That one moment when Lochlan faltered just enough and I saw that he was human and fallible and a goddamned teenage boy and maybe he and Caleb weren't all that different after all and how everything was still wrong even if we were in love because I wasn't old enough to self-validate my feelings, and yet my feelings didn't count because I was still a child.

I don't know if I'll ever forgive anyone for that. They're selective. The good feelings are acceptable, encouraged and noticed. The bad ones are wrong, shove them under the rug, don't let them see the light of day, bury this shit like we should have buried her and then we wouldn't have to live like this, under the risk of not knowing when she would tell, who she would tell, when she might implode.

Instead she reminds them daily that feelings are feelings and you don't get to choose which ones are the ones you will nurture. Instead she teaches them that people are stronger than they sometimes look. Instead she finds a way to live around it, through it and without it too and it seems to be working mostly fine, though the experts (both in-house and out) tell you it's so unhealthy it might be a first and what the fuck, Bridget, eventually it's going to implode. Either they are, you are or all of this will.

If you live on borrowed time, do it well, because you'll never be able to afford to pay it back, let alone with interest.

I want to go clam-digging, I announce abruptly and Lochlan's all well and good to take me until he pauses.

Do they have clams here?

I have no idea. 

Look it up. 

Yes. Plus oysters and cockles. 

I've never seen cockles here. 

Just outside Nanaimo. 

You want to do this today? 

Maybe. I don't know. 

I need a new video card and Ruth has to get her school supplies for second semester. Then at four Christian wants me to pick him up while his truck's getting serviced. Uh. Can we go tomorrow?

No, I missed church last week. 

I don't think Sam cares, Bridge. 

I don't go for him. 

I don't think Jake cares either. 

Wow. 

Well, wow, you want to drive for half a day to dig clams? 

I want to leave here. 

Elaborate. 

It's cabin fever, that's all. I hate January. 

I thought Ben fixed January. 

He only showed up for a bit and he's already gone again. 

Lochlan stops what he's doing and comes over to me, pulling my hands in against his chest, kissing my forehead, my nose, my mouth.

I'm here. You don't have to run. 

Everyone's crushing me with their sweetness. I'm fine. I don't need to be coddled.

Really?

Seriously. 

Then we're not going to the island this weekend. 

Lochlan! 

You said you didn't need to be coddled!

Clam-digging isn't coddling!

It is in fucking JANUARY, Bridge!

"History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce." -Karl Marx.

The sound in my mouth
It gets so loud
It gets so loud
Little words can slip out
Words like sorry
I'm so sorry

To his credit he waited until Ben disappeared again, until Lochlan was in an exceedingly good mood and until he noticed that I had bitten my nails to the quick.

Neamhchiontach, you're still tense. 

Just having a hard time letting go of tension. It takes more than a few days, I think. 

Your hands-

I hide them in the sleeves of my sweater. Just nerves, that's all. 

I can fix that. 

It's late. I raised my eyebrows. He nodded and held out his hand.

I woke up this morning directly underneath a river of hemlocks, rain beating down on the glass, filtered through the trees straight into my eyes. His room is warm. The fur blankets are warm and cozy. The rain is cozy. I lie there biting my nails again and he doesn't open his eyes. Stop. Would you like to have them done so you can't bite them?

Caleb is sleepy, after half a night of trying to fit together conventionally. No doors, no violence, no drugs, no booze. Just him, hands empty, heart almost-full, holding out his arms for me, keeping his weight just right, taking his time, amping up affection levels to a point he rarely reaches, being sweet. I never know what to do when he's like this. It makes it harder still.

No. Thank you. 

I don't like this. You have the hands of an eight-year-old. 

Eleven. I correct him automatically.

He watches my expression of anticipation, my dare. My quiet reminder. Time to go, Baby Girl. Your Magician will be antsy. 

No, he's resigned. 

Resigned, is he? Good to know. 

(I'm sure somewhere Ben has Lochlan in a headlock.)

Yeah, I can go. I get dressed as he watches and instantly start biting my nails again.

I failed. 

Pardon? 

I was going to make you less tense. That was the point. How do I do that? 

Be anyone but you.

Who needs a title? I've got a Ben.

And after this world is out of reach
Sober and silent, faded and violent
Hopeless, I fight to fall between
Never surrender, out of the embers
Save a space inside for me

I don't know what it is about Januaries but they seem to be a Ben-thing, in that he just comes out from hiding and positively blooms. He's present. He's engaged and engaging. He's charming and sweet and affectionate and funny. He's around. He checks the schedule and shows up on time, or early. He talks us into things. He's Ben again.

He goes through debilitating times too where he'll disappear for weeks and then months and then he appears like magic and I love it so much. It's made me look forward to the after-Christmas period where usually all I do is complain about the days still being short, in spite of promises that they'll soon be longer.

I'm not going to assume his presence has anything to do with my health scare. It doesn't. I could set my seasonal-watch by Ben sightings alone, and he's been this way for years so it isn't me, it's him.

But I'll take it.

So will Lochlan.

So will everyone, actually, as he's been helping PJ in the kitchen, he went and did a little work with Caleb in home repair (Caleb isn't...uh...handy but Ben wasn't about to let him waste two or three hundred dollars calling a plumber to change out a new tap after Caleb tightened one too hard and broke it. Ben learned his skills from the others and shows it off every chance he gets.) and he went over to visit with Batman and Jay. He and John are going rain-golfing shortly even.

Snort.

(It's freaking cold.)

He even went and met Joel for coffee last evening. He's down to a meeting twice a week otherwise which is nice because he's home more. He's charmed the dog. He's rested. He's up to date. He's now trying to figure out what projects to take for spring and what to pass on. He's in demand but choosing carefully. He is not, contrary to rumors, hitting the road again.

(Indefinitely not so whatever you heard it's wrong.)

He is making lunch for me as I type. Right now. I don't know what it is. He told me not to worry about it when I asked. That makes me nervous, because when he says that it means he's making something weird.

He just came and read over my shoulder and he insists it's nothing weird.

Call Loch. It's ready. 

Okay. But what is it?

The world revolves around me.

In spite of sayings to the contrary, it actually does.

I poked around the internet this morning. Every old blog that I used to follow long abandoned now, tumbleweeds rolling through, save for one or two that are updated sporadically in fits and spurts with many apologies. I guess Youtube is the way to go now, or Instagram stories, which I don't get at all. Ruth and Henry use Snapchat, I tried once and now have a picture of myself and Christian on my phone with dog ears (which has become comedy gold, mind you) but I like to write.

It keeps me from going crazy.

I managed to have a major, terrifying health scare over the holidays and it was resolved on Monday. I have an all-clear. I was scared but I was also prepared. I didn't look it up. I told very few. I didn't tell my mom, and now she's mad. I followed instructions diligently and I spent from Dec 19 to January 8th waiting.

Waiting is hard. Your brain conjures up results without any information and you make decisions for every outcome and the one you want, which requires no decisions at all to be made after the fact is the one you get which makes you think you've just ducked as a bullet whizzed over your head and you're grateful beyond measure.

And then you are relieved but it floods in slowly. It takes days to stop clenching teeth and fists. Days to breathe again. Days to feel like you used to. Life begins today. Today is the first day, they say, of the rest of your life and finally that stupid saying makes sense.

I think grief has aged me. It's made me fearful of stupid things and very big things alike. This was some sort of resignation. I was ready to be told my time has been shortened. The boys were ready to fight. But it hasn't been shortened now and they don't have to fight.

Now we meet in the middle.

But yeah, my world revolves around me, so there's another saying that makes sense. Just like when Lochlan had so much trouble healing a broken arm we revolved around him. The world revolves around whoever is in the center. Yours revolves around you, too. Congratulations.

I'm not sorry to discover this. I had a feeling it was true, it's nice to have it confirmed. It's nice to know that my boys are relieved and thrilled that I'm okay. It's good to be loved. It's incredible to be loved this much.

And words will never be enough to describe this life, so I need the full allotted time to try and do it anyway.

Also, I've asked if we can do Christmas over again but they all said no.

(Thanks for respecting the odd moments when I ask for privacy. I only posted this to quiet the predictable (but seriously misguided) pregnancy rumors. Stop it already.)

Travel diaries and best sleeps.

I couldn't get up this morning, lying in bed tracing the numbers on the back of Lochlan's neck while he slept instead. The numbers represent the sum of the miles he traveled with the show. He kept a log. He kept a diary. Then Caleb stole it and when Lochlan got it back he realized that it wasn't what was on the pages that was important after all. He had it all in his head. The things he wanted desperately to remember, his favorite quotes and these numbers, he had tattooed all over the place and the rest he let burn.

He burns everything, including the bridges behind him as he runs. We build them again and he comes back long enough to set them alight before taking off once more. If he had wings I-

He doesn't.

He never will. He'll live forever and so I'm not even going to finish that thought. Instead I'll just marvel at the distance he'll go to be who he wants to be.

He's made it and circled back again.

He's tired.

Last night he followed me wordlessly across the driveway, up the steps and down the narrow glass patio to Caleb's front door. I opened it and Lochlan reached up over my head and closed it again, pulling me out of the way with a cry of surprise, taking my hand, leading me back down the steps, back across the driveway, pulling me inside through the door, locking it, throwing the bolts without looking, for he was glaring mildly at me instead. I nod at his expression and he softens so visibly guilt shoots through me like a thunderbolt. I wasn't doing anything, I was just going for that second drink, the first dry in my throat from the morning, long forgotten in taste. That's all.

He presses me against the door with a kiss, twisting my hands up against the window, pushing himself against me. He disengages so we can breathe.

Stay put. Our foreheads are pressed together. I can't nod but I try and he finishes the motion for me. He takes my hand and pulls me up the steps and through the house. Upstairs. Lights off, doors locked as we go. Inside our room he repeats himself in case I missed it.

Stay put. Stay here. And I can deal with things just fine. I asked you if you wanted me to come. Don't let him blame it on me if you said no. They want me to treat you like an adult and I'm trying, Peanut but you make it hard. Don't let him undermine me like that. 

I'm sorry. I whisper it to him but he's already kissing me more, stripping us down, wapping me in blankets and then holding his finger out meaning stay here and he goes and starts a fire. The room still feels so cold but we'll warm up. We'll get there.

I always have woken up first in the morning. I've always remained right where I am (as instructed, always), studying him. The semi-crooked smile he sleeps with. The eyebrows, pale yet disapproving, as if the top half of his face doesn't match the bottom. The way his curls refuse to sync up together and spill over each other. I can wrap them around my wrist without stretching them. Rarely do I see such huge curls in the wild. The color of his hair as it changes from one season to the next, now dark winter red at the ends, summer strawberry blonde at the ends, meeting in the middle in a hope for spring. His nose that he hates that I love. A little bit bigger than normal giving him a friendly appearance that a perfect nose would have interrupted. Too perfect isn't good and good isn't in being too perfect.

Now I trace the lines on his face and he grunts in protest and turns away. But he leaves his arm wrapped around me so I don't stray too far, my hand on his heart, just covering the lower case letter b tattooed there, right where it should be.

Story of my life, right here.

Written on his skin.

Good news.

You look like you could use a drink.

Is this a test? 

No? Why do you ask?

Because if I say yes I don't want eight different people coming out of the woodwork to tell me what a terrible idea it is. 

How about this? One drink. One visit to the King Tide and then I'll bring you back. 

Sounds perfect. 

I could feel my body visibly relaxing as I stood on the landing just above the final string of steps to the beach. They're underwater, this is as far as we can go. We can head the other way and walk out on the docks but I like to walk the beach so this is as good as it's going to get.

I don't have glasses. Caleb takes the bottle and drinks straight from it. Then he hands it to me and I do the same. It burns so beautifully on the way down.

To good news, he says.

Amen, I follow.

How are you? 

I'll sleep tonight. Maybe I'll be back over for a dram first. 

I'll wait up. 

You don't have to. If you're tired-

I would have gone with you. 

Had to go by myself. 

What if it hadn't been good news? 

Then next visit I would have brought you and Loch. 

Lochlan doesn't do so well with-

He'll learn, just like the rest of us. 

Jesus Benjamin (welcome to completely different levels of alertness and morning-ness).

Ben is on point this morning, waking me up early to get ready (he's already dressed for church), then while I'm in the shower he make us coffee and bagels, which were ready just as I came out in my robe to get dressed. We pile back into bed to try to wake up Lochlan so we can eat together. Lochlan is reluctant and sleepy and beautiful. I struggle to hold my cup and plate level between that distracting view and Ben moving, which threatens to upend my breakfast but only a little.

Lochlan manages half a cup of coffee and three bites of my bagel before asking if he can sleep. Ben grants him his request like a dad, but he's eyeing the untouched third bagel. I eye him and he catches me.

Fight you for it? 

You're on. 

I reach up and tickle him under his arms and he retaliates by pinning me down. I shriek, Lochlan curses very loudly and Ben clamps his hand over my mouth, tickling me all over with his other hand until I'm shaking and muffled-screaming and thrashing like a maniac.

Lochlan gets up and goes into the bathroom and doesn't come back out while we lie there, church clothes askew, breathing heavily and laughing softly.

Ben looks at the clock. Fuck, we gotta go. 

Okay. 

He gets up, tucking himself back together and pulls me to my feet. I straighten my dress, find my shoes and take off the one remaining earring. I don't where the other one went. Fuck. I fix my hair and grab a lipstick and my bag off the dresser.

Love you, Locket! I call through the door.

Wait! 

He flings the door open, towel in hand. Come back for lunch. I'll be awake then. 

I nod. I'll pray for your heathen soul. 

Good luck with that. Love you Peanut.

He plants a morning-breath kiss on me and Ben pulls me out the door.

***

Church was quiet and boring and empty and raining. It's not hard to hear Sam when the rain beats down on the roof but it's hard to stay awake. Every time my head went down Ben would squeeze his arm tightly around me. I think he thought I was going to fall on my shoes, collapsing face-first into a puddle on the floor in front of the bench.

Honestly I probably would have.

PJ smirked the whole time. He finds my narcolepsy hilarious. Where's Loch? He asked.

Home. He's up but wasn't in time to come today.

Lucky bastard, PJ says under his breath.

Hey, you don't have to come, I tell him. No one forced you. 

I feel guilty if I don't, PJ says and Ben chuckles. Sam's eyes find us, twinkling. He thinks he's said something clever. I nod at him for the confidence boost and he carries on. I can't even remember his sermon though, maybe it's the traditional understated January malaise. The days are still short and dark, the weather is typical, deplorable and our minds are elsewhere.

Sam lets us out early and we were all home in record time. His second-in-command looks after second service today. It will be more crowded with the later crowd and less personal, somehow.

When we get home Lochlan has tomato soup and grilled cheese ready to roll. Ben eats four sandwiches before I finish half of one. Lochlan is dressed, his hair's under control and he's alert and nice. He's so cranky sometimes. He and Ben share a smile as they both get up at the same time to clear plates.

And I speak too soon.

Jesus. I feel like a princess again. You're all spoiling me. 

They take all of the plates they're holding and pile them in front of and all around me. I just won the chore with that comment.

Nice.

One for all.

August swings lazily in his bed, calling out instructions across the room for the Breville that I am attempting to navigate while my brain wanders off to dangerous places, knowing he's possibly not wearing anything under that quilt, that the fire roars high in the woodstove and that I don't have to do a single thing today other than make a couple of decent cups of espresso here and then dump out the contents of my brain for him to examine.

Come in. 

I heard him call out sleepily when I knocked on the door, the rain beating down on my head, frozen to the bone just from the short trip across the driveway. I need to keep a coat by the side door, I think. When I turned the knob and peeked in I saw a large form still in bed.

Oh! If I woke you I'm sorry. 

I said come in. If I had said nothing then I was asleep. I was already awake. Just not up yet. He pulls himself up to a sitting position and the quilt comes to rest at his waist. No shirt. The room is warm from the fire. It's new so I know he's not just being polite.

I can come back if you'd like to get ready before we visit. 

What haven't you already seen, Bridge? Just come in and I'll teach you to use the coffeemaker. 

I close the door behind me as water drips all over the floor around me.

We need a driveway canopy. 

Ha. That will just encourage me.

I don't mind. It's working. 

Yeah. 

I get to work making the coffees. It's fumbly at first but I can see the ritual emerging. Just a series of steps, like everything else.

I bring a tray with two small cups and two muffins toward the bed but he howls in protest, sending me back toward the living area. August's biggest pet peeve in life is eating in bed, though once he came for a pizza party with Ben and I and I didn't hear any complaints. He'll drink in bed. He just insists he feels a bit like the Princess and the Pea if he feels a crumb underneath him as he sleeps.

Can't say I blame him.

He gets up and I am almost profoundly disappointed to see he's wearing pajama pants.

God.

No really, I am. But it's better that he's dressed for breakfast. He pulls on a clean t-shirt (that might be too small) and my brain forgets why I'm here. It's too busy negotiating a different kind of breakfast and wondering if it would be rude to ask him to just never ever comb his hair again and squinting just a little bit while he talks to turn him into Jacob.

But he catches me handily. Stop. 

What?

Zoning out. 

Sorry, it's early. 

It's ten. 

Right.  

The deal is every morning at ten we spend an hour, find a focus and then you see how the rest of the day goes. He smiles and I nod. It is working. It's working well, though I have moments when I just can't seem to get a grip and then it passes. 2018 is going to be the year of living gracefully as well as gratefully, together. No fists, no raised voices, no ultimatums, no tears.

Ha. That last one though. Good luck. Unless he meant for them. Men cry, they just do it in private.

We're working on balance. Control (a whole different kind than the one historically used by Caleb. Who knew there was more than one kind?). Seeking out the light. Happiness. Cohesiveness. Love.

(That's my favorite one.)

Every day at twelve sharp Lochlan crosses the driveway too and August makes him a cup of espresso and he gets a brief update and they do that short man-hug thing where they basically smash chests and thump each other twice on the back before we leave. By this time generally I've had four cups and I float across the driveway with Lochlan, who holds my string very tightly so I don't drift up into the clouds and he asks if I'm good, if it was a good talk and I usually say yes or if it was tough I say I'm glad I did it anyway and then we make our plans for the rest of the day.

In the evenings at nine it switches out to Sam, who is tasked with breaking down the events of the day and seeing how I fared. Damage control, attitude readjustment and a full commitment to August's methods. Consistency. Cohesiveness. Love. Sam and I talk quietly on the porch under the watchful eye of our Lady Grey teas while the rain pours down around the edges of our atoll and we see how hard it was for me to keep the focus, discuss what may have derailed me or how I navigated the hard parts of the day and we plot the course on a map of my heart to see how far I managed to get.

Every night at ten sharp Lochlan opens the front door and I hand him my tea to finish and he gets a brief update. Sam doesn't do the man-hug thing, instead giving a full on, arms around Lochlan squeeze that holds for five or ten seconds, depending on how the day went. This time I take the cups and go inside and Lochlan takes my place for a half hour or so,  talking with Sam about the day and how he found it. How he's coping with it. How to process it. How to let me grow up when emotionally we're stuck in the teenage years seemingly forever.

Sam and August talk after that, together or so I learned a couple of days ago, supporting each other, choosing to work together instead of giving out mixed messages or conflicting methods.

Took us awhile, this. We'll get where we need to be.

Together, Lochlan says.

Yeah.