Tiny soaked thoughts, floating in a puddle on the drive.

Heavy downpours, flash floods, snow up on the highway. January in the lower mainland is a wet and messy affair, and I have come to loathe it almost as much as the same period in the prairies when the temperatures dip far below what seems reasonable, and the ice builds to a fever pitch right through until Easter.

This is hard on the mind, I think, though I don't know how exactly. The darker, shorter days aren't that bad, the rain is nice, actually, drumming on the windows to lull me to sleep, leaving all the rules broken so that there are lights on all day long and no one complains or turns them off.

I baked early this morning. Blueberry muffins. Seven pans worth and they were gone by eleven this morning. I forgot to take one when they were cool and so I don't get one, but it's okay.

But this rain. 

It's tough on a good day and almost impossible on a bad.

I need a vacation.

I need groceries.

I think I need a new raincoat.

Extra zinc for turquoise, just for me.

Last night the weather cleared just long enough for us to cook and eat outside, down on the beach over a fire before it was fed enough to roar up into the night, sparks turning to fireworks to the point where I couldn't tell them from the stars. There were six acoustic guitars in attendance wielded by five established bards and one court jester, who continues to learn at a pretty good pace, truth be told. I grew sleepy from the red wine and the roast beef, my belly full of homemade bread, my body warm under a blanket, sitting on one of the driftwood logs we have dragged into a loose circle.

These nights are the ones I love. We've just moved from the woods to the lake, from the ocean to the other ocean, from childhood into adulthood, from ignorance into character, scarred by time. The guitars are better quality and worn. The faces lined, the hair beginning to turn grey for some of us, white for others and not yet for the rest.

Lochlan heralds the end of the evening with a generous sprinkling of cooper sulfate, copper chloride and a polymer that he mixes in small batches to make the flames turn colour. Sort of like Mystical Fire packets but he uses a slightly different blend to garner deeper colours and longer lasting flames. Don't try this at home, he laughs, because in real life the packets you buy at the last-stop stores are engineered to be thrown into a fire without being opened first.

It grows cooler soon enough and the rain threatens a swift return and so by eleven we are all up and inside, with new glasses of wine, beach blankets draped up along the covered railings. Everyone scatters to the far corners of the point and the spell is broken by the fat cold droplets that begin to fall, soaking the darkness, washing away our sins.

Thief of hope.

You've taken all of my roles and redistributed them to the others?

It's not an accusation, just an observation. He's right, though. I have begun to mourn him while he is still alive, the glaring absence of his presence a fresh new pain that I've worked doggedly to bury somewhere in with everything else.

No, I haven't. I don't know what you mean. My voice is fake-bright and brimming with the lies spilling out of my face like a waterfall. (Oh, I know what you mean, Sam.)

Bridget, please. I'm just looking for what you already have. 

It was there all along, Sam. 

Selfishly we'd all like to be number one, though, don't you think? Don't you understand that? Maybe...Duncan or PJ are content to simmer on a backburner but I always needed more than that. Just. like. you. 

The forced focus on the inflection of his words annoys me. You're further diluting it, for. your. information. I match it, just to be a jerk. Just to twist the screws. We're about to embark on the first romantic fight of our relationship, and I intent to win it. If I don't it will kill me and I already died yesterday.

You're jealous.

Of Matt? I laugh. Matt is shallow and temporary. What we have is deeper. It's EVERYTHING.

It's nothing, Bridget. There's no promise, no commitment, no giving of oneself to it whole. No bringing it before God-

Oh Sam. Why do you get so hung up on marriage? You've done it twice. You know the saying fool me twice-

Third time's the charm?

What?

It's the saying, Bridge.

You think marrying Matt again will work?

I can marry him or I can marry you but I didn't get this far in life not to be happy.

You can't marry me, I'm already- And then I realize he got me. He's right. Oh fuck.

Right.

When?

Easter, maybe. Someone told us we shouldn't rush so we're listening to her.

She's a puppet though.

Oh, I know.

Would you have, though? Where were you when Jake flew?

I was still married, Bridget, or I would have offered.

Sometimes I wish you had.

It would never have worked but it would have been fun.

Don't say things like that.

Don't go around missing me when I'm right here. If you need me just come find me. I'll never abandon you.

Thank you, Sam.

For what?

For saying that. I know you mean it.

He nods. So can I be the thief again?

No, sorry. I need to do this. If the same things aren't working then they need to be different.

Couldn't have said it better myself.

Let's welcome a new memory thief in 2020.

When I die there won't be any show. No one will remember the girl with all the gifts, save for the ones I gave them to. There won't be any lights, no sandwich boards with my talents written on them in cheap acrylic paint, no drama, no wailing, no flinging of oneself into the sea or sky, no open sobbing, no wringing of tissues in dry hands. There will be some punched walls maybe, a few quiet sulks as they figure out how to go it alone with a missing presence but otherwise I expect things to remain quiet.

Until they cut me open, to find out exactly why I died.

There will be the horror, the tenderness, the unprofessional exclamation and surprise. Yes, they will confirm, she did indeed die of a broken heart, but look at it! What an absolute masterpiece! And they will heft it aloft into the light to see the heavy black parts, to see my neat, even stitches interspersed with Ben's hasty duct taping and Lochlan's cauterized seams, to see the parts so light they are almost clear-pink like candy, and to reflect on the fact that life does find a way, because shoots and stems are bursting from it, leaves curled up almost (but not quite) ready to open, flower buds tight and delicate, ready to bloom, ready to start over, ready for something, up for anything.

And what feeds those is this black underneath, they theorise. I wonder what's it's made of. It's not rot, exactly, but it's not alive either. 

It's her memories, Lochlan says from the corner. They weigh more than the rest so they've settled to the bottom.

Those are in her mind, the examiner says to him, almost dismissively.

Look for them, then, Lochlan challenges. You don't gatekeep Lochlan, there isn't a thing he doesn't already know except how get through this part.

Well, of course, it's right here, don't be ridicul- And he stops because again, there is that unexpected surprise. She doesn't have a brain.

Oh, she does. But her heart ate it, along with everything else. 

That isn't possi-

You tell me what you see, then, and I'll tell you what I know. And Lochlan settles in, getting comfortable. This is a new-old role for him, and he plays it better than anything else he's ever done.

Ruled by oak moons and Neptune.

Wake up, Princess.

I swim out of the depths of my dreams, toward the bright lights at the top, lungs bursting for air. I gasp when I break the surface, filling my lungs, feeling Lochlan's arm tighten around my ribs from where he has pulled me close. It's okay, everything is okay.

Jacob is kneeling beside the bed, one hand out, smoothing my hair back from my forehead with his thumb, a gesture so missed, so familiar that I want to cry.

It was just a bad dream. 

I know. I'm suddenly inconsolable, cranky. I smack his hand away and turn away from him, back towards safety as Cole snickers in the blackness behind Jake.

Lochlan wakes up when I move too much, programmed by years and years of being both a parent and a lover.

Okay?

I nod against his chin and he mumbles fuck off ghosts and holds me so tightly it's hard to breathe.  Close your eyes, he orders and I listen. Sleep, he barks and I try but fail. I wait until his breath evens out and I slip out from his now slack-grip and dress in the dark, watching through the holes in my sweater as I slide it over my hair in case the ghosts have snuck back in. Ben never came to bed. I'm pretty sure Ben came home in the middle of his meetings and now has to figure everything out from here so he's downstairs working.

I toss a coin inside my mind and promptly lose it as it lands on an edge, rolling away into a dark corner where the cobwebs are too thick to venture and the shadows too long to risk. Then I remember Matt lives here now and I make a left down the hall, knocking on the door softly before letting myself in. I climb in under the covers and a gentle startle wakes the Devil, who lets his surprise shine as he makes room for me, tucking his arm around my ribs, chin on top of my head.

Now I can sleep, he says.

Me too, I assure him, since the ghosts won't come anywhere near someone this frightening.

Me or you? Caleb asks, holding me harder, but I am already too far gone to answer, fast on my way back to my dreams.

Seven hours in and I've already broken every rule.

It's a beautiful sunny morning. A new day. A new year and a new decade even. I brought my music and my coffee down to the water to greet the Pacific properly, alone and with my hands, icy cold plunging outstretched into the sea as if I could put my weight on the surface and do a handstand. My coffee sits on my favourite flat picnic rock and Ben Howard shouts folk laments into my skull, his accent pervading his words so sweetly I get briefly distracted and miss the fact that I'm no longer alone exactly.

I startle and pitch forward onto my knees from where I had been crouching on my feet. I cry out and sit back.

Going to greet the sea with a kiss, are we? Bit extreme in this weather. 

Ben is home. Though his words sound like something Lochlan would say. They've rubbed off on each other to the point where they are burnished, blinding in the light. I get up and run to him, jumping into his arms and now he can be soaked with saltwater too. But at least he's home at last.

Happy New Year, Bumblebee. Or maybe I should change your nickname to wolfbait? 

(Oh. He's been bored and reading.)

Happy New Year! Why didn't you tell me you were on the way?

Surprising you is more fun. 

Happy New Year, Benny.

It will be, Bridget. We promise. We might be wolves but you're one of us and we look after each other.

It was a visual-

I know what it was but I also know how things are-

I hear a sound and turn to see Lochlan coming down the beach and when the sun hits his hair I forget about Ben, though I haven't seen him in days. Loch is smiling when he gets to us, hugging Ben first, hard, before turning to me.

Why didn't you wake me?

You looked peaceful. 

At least you didn't come down alone. But why are you soaked?

To his credit Ben didn't even rat me out, God bless him.

The plan.

It's going to be different, 2020. There's going to be more laughter and fewer tears. We're going to become adventurers again. We're going to get more and give up less (take that either way, if you will). We're going to be fierce and unforgiving, pillaging everything we see, taking our due, noting our worth, stroking the fires of our bravery and might so that others will fear our names.

It's going to be incredible.

I have half a mind to stand out on the point in the snow, face defiantly raised toward the light, feathers woven into my hair, Ben's brass knuckle rings firmly shoved onto each and every finger as I punch a hole in the winter sky to find the sun.

I have the other half of my mind which falters behind like a simple child, pleading with me to wait while it catches up. I turn, sneer on my lip, shaking my head. No. Haste, my child. Keep up or you'll be eaten by the wolves, lost forever.

She listens, mercifully. I don't want to watch that ever again. Her scars are all over, bites, claws, marks from where they have almost caught her as she stumbles through the dark, grabbing branches, losing footing, losing ground and then making it up again with my help. Maybe I will devour her and then I can get where I need to be.

Wouldn't it be nice.

But they have asked to keep her.

And so she stays.

And if you look out toward the point you'll see her already there, dirt streaked on her cheeks, mixed with the snow that melts on her face, mixed with tears too, feathers and leaves tangled in her hair, torn pockets on her dress from where she keeps her treasures, blood soaked through the fabric for her treasures are wolf/human hybrid hearts and it's rare if you catch her standing still.

Frozen, too.

The snow is incoming. It's already all around us, dusted solid white across the mountaintops, fading to a powdered-sugar sprinkle to the treelines below, and stretching all across the country, names on a map obscured by flakes as big as pennies, heavy with the almost-rain we've been having up until now, a reprieve that we'll soon wish for when everything is made so much more difficult by snow. When we'll have to find warmer boots and matching gloves, when hat-hair becomes a thing, and icy beards thaw, dripping down onto crisp dry shirts. When the furnace runs near constantly and the cats appear after dark as if by magic, looking to curl up against warm sleeping bodies.

Though, as PJ points out almost every single morning? The days are getting longer, even if only by minutes at a time. I'll take that but I will fight the snow with every resource I have. Which would be, at this moment my sheer hatred of the stuff, a Jeep and lots and lots of fire.

Lochlan laughs. Just let it go. We'll manage just fine. 

Where does it absolutely never snow? That's still Canada? 

Oh, uh, still in the country? Maybe Victoria? 

Alright can we move?

You don't want to live there. 

I know, I just hate this shit. 

It'll be gone in a week or two. 

Right. Wake me when it's done. 

Bridget, you used to love it. 

That was the old Bridget. The new one isn't nearly so flexible. 

Honestly the old one wasn't so much either. We'll get through it like we always do and you will see. 

I look at him for a long moment, studying his face. He's right. I know he's right and I trust him and I'm never sure why every molehill is a mountain in my mind and every molehill just another hill to climb for him and he's tired and we're getting old and maybe old dogs don't new tricks and maybe this is the way it is, snow and all.

Lochlan, I love you. 

He looks surprised. I know you do. I wish you'd focus on that more though, and less on everything else.

That will be my resolution for the New Year. 

I have to wait until then? 

I just want to be together! I just want to be DISTRACTED.

As the Devil's advocate my role is to work for him to point out everything that could go wrong with the previous post, in case you found it (as I did) pretentious, lofty, tone-deaf or whatever range of beautiful, introspective compliments I read on my mails when I deign to venture into them, as I did today blindly, stupidly in an attempt to distract myself.

Firstly, I am lactose intolent, and so all of this camembert needs to go.

Secondly this house is full of recovering alcoholics and close-to-becoming alcoholics and so all this champagne? It needs to go.

Thirdly I have no earthly idea what anyone actually got for Christmas because of the private exchanges, I'm tired of the dim lighting, dead batteries from lanterns and melted, dried wax on everything from candles (not to mention the massive fire hazard) and sometimes a girl just wants to have a big ol' blistering bubblebath by herself. 

Fourthly, guess who just informed us he needs to be on a plane by midafternoon to put out a fire somewhere else?

That would be Ben, who still sometimes can't figure out what 'family' means.

 But it's okay, for my advocacy on his behalf, the Devil has gracious agreed to take Ben's place until he returns.

Rituals of Yule, in chiaroscuroic, if not tenebristic, form.

(People keep asking for a window into our lives, so here's a glimpse, if at all.)

The traditions surrounding holidays for the Collective have evolved breathtakingly over the years to the point where if anyone moves to alter or ignore certain customs they are met with swift and gentle reminders that we're doing things differently now. If something absolutely is not working for someone they either separate off and don't indulge or they appeal for a rule change or tradition-tweak at the still-regular family meetings, held just about once a week in order to keep chore lists, budgetary considerations and raw feelings acknowledged, affirmed. It's the way we've become. Living together as an intentional family we remain unconventional and yet put extraordinary effort into forcing convention.

Some of my favourites I will detail for you, first and foremost being the one where everyone is home, present and accounted for. Without that there would be no rituals, no special moments, no warmth in a room.

Everyone calls in holiday vacations, ends travel plans a little early, pushing the next ones back a little later, making sure to be here so that we are all together. All meals are held here at the big house, and so August, Matt and Sam, Schuyler, Daniel, Christian, Andrew and Batman, New Jake and anyone else who is here or home join us around the clock to partake at the big table, actually three tables now or outside on the heated patio for the biggest, most formal meals. It's covered, there is glass above the pergola, and the heaters are moved as needed.

We don't use lights unless they are of the fairy, Christmas or carnival sort. Candles and lanterns rule the roost, inside and out, right through until the New Year. Anyone reading a book takes an LED lantern and otherwise it's just more beautiful without the bright lights and blinding glares.

We actually stop doing chores and those that can't be held off on are doubled-down to finish much faster. Everyone pitches in, no one worries about the master lists, preferences or unfairness of it all.

Meals turn decadent. I think some of us have been living on champagne and chocolate. Everything is cooked by all of us working together, and we pull out the oldest dearest recipes and make enough for all. Four turkeys. We made ten tortieres and three pies. Five cakes and dozens of cinnamon rolls and cookies.

In comparison, gift-opening was done separately over many days, a private engagement as the gifter sought out the giftee, a newer tradition I love, as we take the time to explain what the other soul means to us, what the gift means for them, what we hope for the new year moving forward. This way there is time to smooth over a rough year or shine an already-bright one, there is time for gratitude and time to discuss relationships instead of rushing through discarded mountains of wrapping paper and forgetting what gifts you've been given.

We have plum pudding and Christmas tea every evening before retiring to the theatre to watch movies, series and specials en mass. We had caroling on the beach by candlelight and champagne well-attended bubblebaths and long naps in front of the fire. We've talked late into the night on the front porch, drinking mulled wine, watching the woods.

I have rolled miles of pastry dough and baked close to a dozen wheels of camembert. I've opened so many bottles of champagne and fielded so many kisses from the Devil I lost count over the past week and Lochlan and I are finally thoroughly slept and sated, salted and sealed. We still have New Years to navigate, the beginning of yet another decade of our lives together and somehow I think this one will be better than the last.

As long as we keep finding our own traditions, keep finding ways to love and keep finding what truly makes us happy, it most definitely will, Peanut.

Onward and upward, Dóiteán

Ag obair air cheana féin, Neamhchiontach. 

(He said he was already working on it, if you're curious.)