Prone to magnificent, profound gestures, and can juggle anything you hand him, including newborn babies and broken glass.

When I go for my morning walk today I get the biggest surprise. At the end of the dock, where the giant yacht used to be, where I never went and now that the space is empty and open I visit it every single day, there's a small, handpainted sign. Wait. There's another. And another. They are brightly colored, painted on small pieces of board and nailed sturdily to two by fours and then to the ends of the dock and all around the edges and then down the steps too.

They are encouragement signs.

One says THIS TOO SHALL PASS

One says JESUS SAVES but it has a winky face underneath it so it's mostly sarcastic.

One says WE DON'T SINK WE SWIM

COURAGE, DEAR HEART with a tiny hanging sign swinging below it that says BRAVE

And my favorite? DON'T LOOK BACK YOU'RE NOT GOING THAT WAY

And nailed all over the dock at random intervals are painted red hearts on small scraps of wood. Some are as big as my hand, others are the size of a thumbtack. It looks amazing. I wouldn't have seen them except that I tripped on one and almost fell off the edge, rescuing myself with a gasp and a newly cold sweat.

And every one of these signs is painted in an individual and unique style, one I know so well.

What do you think? Lochlan's waiting on the stairs, guilty as charged, with paint-stained hands and a bruised thumb from where he smashed it with the hammer. He's here every morning. Every time. He has far more faith than PJ in me, enough to let me go alone, but his eyes have bored holes in my back as I go. The wind whistles a tune straight through me now, and the faster I walk, the louder it plays.

The ties that bind.

I'm playing 9 Crimes on the panio this morning. Singing both parts. August comes in and sits with me on the piano bench. He doesn't know the song. How can you not know the song? But he knows the piano after watching me play the same part over and over again. He takes over on the keys and I wish for my violin but it's not on this floor. Maybe another time. The tag is sticking out on the neck at the back of his henley and I absently sabotage my perfect morning with the ridiculous point that Jacob had the same shirt. Dark grey. Five small buttons on the front. Long sleeves and a marled texture that made it appear cashmere from a distance, though it was brushed cotton.

Thanks, brain. Thanks for that. Truly.

August turns. I didn't realize I had stopped singing.

I don't ask for much, Bridget.

I shake my head in agreement. No, he certainly doesn't.

Please don't talk about what happens between us. Don't lump me in. Don't call me out. Don't put a target on head. It's between you and I. They know damn well I wouldn't hurt you so don't list my name when you speak of reasons to continue your war. I'll be in your army but I don't want to be singled out. I'm begging you.

Did someone come to you?

Of course. It was an avalanche and I had no idea what was going on.

I'm sorry.

I understand you were trying to prove a point. I get it. I just don't want the politics.

It's inevitable, August.

It's making me think twice, Bridget. Honestly, I'm well past twice and am reconsidering everything.

What's keeping you here then? I close the lid over the keys and get up to leave. He grabs my hand. I wrench it back. Go if you're unhappy. (I call his bluff. He's not leaving.) Sorry I used you as an example but in case you forget they know exactly what it's like with you because they've seen you in action.

May as well point out I'm not the one who brings others to my door. The politics is all this is at this point.

***

Henry's done and done. Marks are rolling in already, though he wrote exams this morning. We held the ceremonial burning of the schoolwork and tallied up the marks, as the children get a pre-determined amount of cold hard cash for every A, B and C they pull off, A is worth the most, naturally. His marks are great, far better than mine were, anyhow at the same age. Almost as good as Ruth's though Henry took all physics and engineering, drafting and computers and math classes. Ruth took art, english, french and student assistance, so they are as different as night and day.

I'm just stupidly proud. I never have to send him up the hill ever again. His college program is mostly going to be online, amazingly enough, and now he needs a job for the summer and beyond, until his program finishes. I had a little birdie tell me Schuyler has an offer for him from someone he knows. I'm hoping it works out and comes to fruition but if not there will be something else.

Sigh. While I cried all through this month at the thought of Henry being done now I just feel relief. It's over. It's finished! They're both done. They're good humans, wonderful fledgling adults and far far better than I, which is all I ever wanted and everything I probably didn't deserve.

Poets in the clouds.

Hell is not fire and brimstone, not a place where you are punished for lying or cheating or stealing. Hell is wanting to be something and somewhere different from where you are.

        ~Stephen Levine.

Lochlan doubled down on the fire and Sam on the brimstone this morning as they made a wall of flames around us, a personal cautionary tale instead of a general sermon. A lashing, not even remotely less painful by virtue of being verbal and a call to God to end the madness even as we keep its head underwater so that it only ever surfaces enough to get a breath. It's under control. Everything's fine. You can call God on your personal hotline all you like but just remember the only single thing on earth he can't control is the Devil.

I took Caleb's hand midway through the lexical torture and Lochlan sighed and pulled my hand away again, taking both of mine in one of his, firmly against my lap while his right arm pulled me against him, away from Caleb. Not sure what changed. Maybe writing about what a difficult time Caleb has with being gentle is setting him (them) off. Maybe the fact that he still likes to mildly put me under consciousness so that everything is easier is making Lochlan worry. It's easy to kill someone who's half your weight, half your size. A good squeeze will do. A hard knock will do. A twist. A blow. An oops. Though Caleb isn't going there, as he would suffer the most grief if he did, having wanted me the longest and been denied. That would cement his fate alone. Alive, I remain a goal. A dream, even. Alive, I remain a rare companion to him. Momentarily making his night or his day before the dream is ripped away because Lochlan's never going to let him have it.

But it isn't only Lochlan in the way. It's an entire army made up of the living and the dead. And clearly it's headed by God. I was actually surprised when he said he would meet us at church. I figured he would shrink back against the woodwork at home but instead he holds his head high. Technically he's done nothing wrong. Technically I'm his girlfriend. His charge. His sugar baby. His Reason for Being. His brother's wife that he promised to take care of. And honestly the sex isn't even that rough anymore when compared to Ben or Sam or August, for fucks sakes so I don't know why Lochlan is so mad now.

I can tell you after, Lochlan whispers to me and I stare at him. Stop reading my mind, I think and he shakes his head.

No, he laughs. It's the only way I can tell what's really going on. 

Just going to point out here that God can't even do that, or everything would be different right now.

The darker the weather the better the man.

Caleb's on a roll. We were listening to Missio's Loner album, from a band which always has a wonderful pendulum that swings between making you want to dance to making you want to tear someone's clothes off. We had a good balance of the two going, frankly, finishing a bottle of wine neatly while doing so but not being even remotely lit, just a little warm, just a lot of fun.

Soon he lets muscle memory take over, pulling me into his lap, wrapping me in his buttoned-down french-cuffed shirt that should probably be whisked away to be cleaned, pressed and hung perfectly somewhere instead of crumpled around my form, falling off my shoulders, down over my elbows to wind up underneath us somewhere. Like my phone. His watch. Something else that's probably going to hurt later. Like most things here do.

When the song changes he leans me forward, away from him but coming with me, until his weight crushes me into that shirt. One hand around the back of my head, one around my neck he brings me with him, climbing to nirvana harder and faster than I like, slower and more gently than he prefers.

His lips are bruising mine, his breath ragged but quiet against my face, his hands squeeze the air from my throat and I drift into the dark alone before he comes thundering in against me, strong thighs working to keep mine apart, sharp hips grinding into my existence. Always sure I might die this way, maybe inadvertently, maybe not, I begin to catalogue all of the good things I have experienced in my life. I don't have enough time for it, as the memories stack up, building a wall between us that even his need can't climb. I build and build until I'm too tired and eventually he is through, letting go, letting the cold air rush in around my bones, insulating it until the new room is warm. I fail to answer whatever question he asked there, at the end and he is angry, turned silent in the chill, removed from me as I have removed myself from him. What generally begins as fun, as progress, time travelled since the past into tonight ends in a stark reminder that we're still on the starting line. That we've made hardly any progress at all except to confirm to those around us that we are stubborn, broken and depraved.

He lands one final kiss against my lower lip, loathe to let go completely but determined to keep his composure in the face of total and utter rejection. No matter what I say or do he knows he's in last place. No matter the number of I love yous or the depth of my demonstrated commitment change the fundamental result. I can't talk myself into this.

She won't let me.

You need to-, I tell him in the dark. My voice is so small. I hate it.

I'm going. He nods and suddenly I'm alone.

Soft-tissue artifacts.

Hey, pretty. 

I was almost asleep. Book hitting my face with alarming regularity as I pressed on, waiting for Lochlan to come up as he was helping Sam with something and I couldn't wait up any longer.

I roll over, smiling at thin air. No one is there. The door is closed. I sit up in a rush, wide awake. The dog hasn't moved, stretched out asleep on the floor at the foot of the bed. He would have gotten up and flustered if it had been anyone other than Lochlan, Ben, Caleb or Sam.

No one. I'm alone. I wonder if I am alone. Hey, pretty was one of Cole's greetings, not Jacob's. Great. Uninvited ghosts. Not even giving me the courtesy to show me he's here save for whispering in my ear faintly, late into the night.

Go home, Cole. I say it out loud just as Lochlan comes in.

What? 

Cole said something. 

Bridget, what? 

Nothing. Nevermind. 

Tell me what happened. 

I was reading and trying to stay awake and Cole whispered 'Hey, Pretty' at me. I can't see him but he's here. I told him to leave. 

Yeah. Cole, go home! Lochlan says it loudly. He opens the window all the way. Here, you can go out this way. Then he gets undressed, turns out the lights and climbs into bed.

Did he leave? 

I was going to ask you. 

Let's assume so. He was never one to stick around where he didn't feel welcome. Lochlan pulls me into his arms. He always has the right words. He takes me seriously. He makes me feel safe. It's been a long road to get to this place and I don't want to start hearing voices so I'm hoping it was real even though I also hope it wasn't.

Sleep, Bridget. It's just you and me. 

Drained and fabulous.

The chocolate arrived, the elevator doors finally closed and one of the cats sneezed on me all night long so while I haven't slept this week yet, the outlook is still definitely better than before. Plus I think I got all my crying over my baby graduating out of my system because as luck would have it, he still has to go to school right through Monday thanks to British Columbia's provincial English exams requirement. Great fun. Ruthie is travelling downtown to hang out with her friends, have lunch and shop and I have had a square of salted caramel chocolate and a deep breath and I've decided to cancel grocery shopping today in favor of finishing my other chores early and then trying to be kind to myself for the remainder of today. No more school lunches ever to be made. Just work ones. Which is great. I'm excited.

Caleb is easy with the forehead kisses and long, searching hugs this morning.

Feeling better? 

Yes. It must be the chocolate, I tell him, because if I say Lochlan as my reason (because really Lochlan and I sat on the porch last night and talked forever) Caleb will stiffen and formalize and it's such a nice day.

Wonderful. Maybe we should make it a monthly delivery. 

Perfect. 

He wanders off, proud of himself and Duncan sweeps through. Drops his coffee mug into the sink from downstairs and gives me a kiss on the top of my head as he says goodbye. He's heading to an early meeting. Two a week at present. Doing well. I try not to fuck with his head and he is affectionate but removed. It's a pattern but whatever works.

And things today are okay. I really need to sort through this thought of being kinder to myself and work on keeping the peace in this house, instead of inciting emotional riots and when all that works, everything else works too. Right?

June's been rough, to be honest.

He did it, Jake. He graduated and you weren't even here to see it because of your goddamned doubts.

I had to say it. Even under the watchful eyes of PJ who won't stay at the top of the steps during high tide, insisting on being within grabbing distance if I just decide to walk into the wind-licked sea.

Except I'm not a quitter. I'm sticking it through. I was here every single day of Henry's life, to wake him up for school. See him off with an I Love You and a Good Luck and a healthy lunch and a bug hug. So was PJ, if you want to be fair, and so we were rewarded with watching Henry walk across the stage to get his diploma, loping easily, a satisfied small smile on his face. A cheer rising up from the crowd of his uncles and friends, now. Almost a full beard, as he loves looking older, here on the cusp of eighteen.

I'm so proud of my kids I could burst.

You missed the whole fucking thing.

That's enough, Bridge. 

There's the best part. I'm not even allowed to disparage Jacob out loud, because he is Henry's father. Because I have to respect that. Because I try to respect that.

But it's so hard.

Gift basket is on the way. Lord help my saccharine soul.

All chocolate emergencies have been dealt with now because not only is there a few packages on the way (which will get eaten, as chocolate is a Big Deal in this house) but Lochlan and Ben brought home a cake from their travels yesterday (which included driving all over town picking off a list of things some of the boys needed and they like to take off sometimes and spend the day together and have lunch out and bond separately from me, which I love because it keeps them close).

Also I learned how Caleb shops online (which I suspected but have now confirmed). He goes online, finds what he wants, sorts from highest to lowest price, selects and buys the top thing. I'm trying to teach him that isn't really the best way to shop. Sometimes it's a brand preference or a value for the money thing. I don't think he believes me but we ordered Ghirardelli on my advice because it's probably the best that I've found, albeit not even close to the most expensive. He has his doubts but he will see.

It's raining today and everyone is quietly hovering. I like it. It makes the cake I'm having for breakfast that much sweeter.

Don't read this unless you're used to it, too.

Once again it's a beautiful day. I'm feeling better, however, having moved on from a fever and extreme exhaustion to a headache and extreme exhaustion. I'm trying to drink more water and get more sleep to counteract this and maybe it will work.

Over breakfast someone made the mistake of asking me how I'm doing (serious this time) since I will never complain to them, and so they got a highly detailed account of my attempts to insert my menstrual cup this morning in spite of giving up on it last year upon finding out my uterus is also narcoleptic and is leaning up against my bladder, having a snooze, so tilted it should be sent to AA meetings, if only I could take it out.

(And I would, if anyone would let me. Because apparently no one wants to remove parts from a perfectly functioning somewhat healthy woman just because every period she has is the Shining elevator doors scene repeated for four days straight every month now, sometimes every second month because normal? Who the fuck needs to be normal?

I think Dalton was sorry he asked.

Caleb found it fascinating. I might know someone who can help you, he says. Of course he does. Why wouldn't he have a uterus expert on file. Or a heavy period specialist. What's he going to do, threaten it?

(I've tried that. It did nothing.)

I have three doc-, no four. I have four doctors already. But thank you. 

Let's change the subject then. Dalton pleads with me.

Okay. Find those isograph drawing pens in this city. 

Just get them on Amazon. 

What the fuck? No. That's far too easy. I must drive around for two weeks searching for them before forgetting about them for another year. 

Dalton rolls his eyes and looks at his phone. Conversation over, I guess.

Ordered. Caleb says.

I was JUST about to do that, Dalton laughs.

So I'm stuck home waiting for Amazon now. 

May as well since you're bleeding out.

Did you order chocolate too? 

Jesus Christ, Dalton says and they both whip out their phones again.

So far so ____________.

What a beautiful day. It's breezy and sunny and perfect, a summer day like no other. I called my father to wish him a Happy Father's Day but he was busy so he asked me to call him later before I could get a word in. Lochlan is still asleep after a rough night and no one else has appeared as of yet, save for Sam, who pushed his hand against my forehead, rattled off a prayer for the contagious, for the sweaty-feverish, and then all but ran out the door, late for church.

But as I said: What a beautiful day.