We're official. No going back now.

Duncan is in fine form this morning. He did about five backflips off the cliff while I watched and sipped my coffee, venturing close to the edge every time to make sure he made it back to the surface (as did Dalton. And PJ. And Loch). Each time he came up we had a routine to enact and he finally got tired. He's sometimes like a toddler on sugar in that you need to wear him out and then he'll finally stop.

And promptly take a nap on you.

You finished?

I don't think so, not yet, Bridgie.

I would stick my tongue out at him, he would wink and then take a run at the cliff again.

This is enough adrenaline for them all. Somehow it works and now suddenly ten years have gone by here and the commune that was a strange experiment in the beginning is now a well-established system and we have made some rather significant changes to herald that milestone.

It's time to celebrate.

These aren't sudden changes, mind you, they have been things we have been working towards all along. Ten years is a very long time and these boys have worked hard and asked for absolutely nothing. They pitch in, they soothe each other, they help with everything and they've gone all-in. They've proved themselves a thousand times over and it's finally time they get their due.

We did away with a few major obstacles to the true success of this collective. We did away with the implied hierarchy, in that a core group were responsible for making all of the decisions. Now it's by a group vote.The children also have a vote as they are no longer children but full-fledged adults.

We did away with the financial system we used thus far. No one's not going to pull their weight, there is no class divide. We don't lend and borrow, we give freely and take if necessary. This was a long time in the making because legally I want everyone to be protected and I also wanted a system whereby we could live off interest and not need to touch principal but also allow for capital purchases without needing to apply to a committee, or defend whims or even second-guess each other but still protect the interests and worth of the group proper. And allow for change, if necessary. What if someone wants to leave? What is someone wants to join? After years of working through everything, from the little details to the big we've finally got it all sorted out.

(Note: At this time Batman and (new) Jake are not included and most likely never will be. Not for any reason other than it isn't necessary and Batman is a ridiculous loner over there at his Wayne mansion with his manservant Alfred (I mean Jake). This is not a bad thing, it's just the way it is and that's fine.)

Caleb even approved of the work I've done. He knows all the lawyers but we used an impartial group. We have no leaders here anymore. We're all equal. I am no longer the landlady or the center of atten-

Well, I am still the centre of attention. No amount of legislation within the Collective will ever change that.

Dinner tonight will be individual apple pies with cinnamon and nutmeg, made from apples from our own tiny orchard, that we've somehow brought back to life over the past ten years here, and this is the first year it bears fruit for us to eat. They're early apples only because I'm afraid they'll become bitter if I wait too long to use them which goes against everything I know as a gardener but I'm also completely unwilling to see the apples stolen by the raccoon family that visits us every night seeing what's ready to take and what they should wait for.

Dessert and iced tea only because the heat wave continues and no one wants to eat, we just want to float in the pool until we fall asleep, which turned out to be a surprisingly bad idea for me and today I am pinkish and sore from the sun. I had fifty sunblock on but it wasn't enough so Lochlan said if I'm going to float I'll be doing it in my wetsuit from now on.

It's also pink. I know! Surprise! You thought it would be black, didn't you?

Just going to blow up the top of the driveway and I'm all set.

When I was younger I thought that the dog days of summer meant the very end, what we called 'Indian Summer' when the last few days of the season were languid, scorching, bleached-out days in which we could hardly think for the waves of heat broiling down upon our heads, that somehow it was a last burst, if you will.

Now that I'm older and have internet I see it's from July 3-Aug 11 and it means hot days, mad dogs and bad luck, thunderstorms and drought. Fire.

I think I liked my interpretation better, although now Indian Summer is something we no longer say because it's not politically correct and also because the internet says it's in October, a false summer, so to speak so I guess I'm off on all counts but that's okay. Summer still contains so much promise, though of what I don't know anymore. Everything is closed. I stand on circles everywhere I go. I ran out today for an old-Bridget singular adventure (sober, given one hundred minutes exactly). I went to the store to pick up eggs and lettuce, I got gas for my Jeep since the price gets higher and higher until the long weekend is a memory, and I went to see my favorite hairstylist (the one I only see every two or three years because Daniel loves to play stylist and who am I to deny him?) who cut ten inches off my hair. I have a hella cute pixie bob now which makes me look shorter and smaller than ever but I also don't have to worry about it taking four hours for my hair to dry nor do I have to gather it up and drape it over people's arms so they don't pull on so much. I can skip conditioner if I want and I also have much better baby bangs now, because I cut them myself after Daniel didn't do them short enough and egads, bad idea. She fixed them. I don't know how but they're longer now.

 I feel a little better. I wore my mask the whole time. I saw a lot that didn't. Most people seem content to skip the mask, the arrows, the circles, the instructions. There is no 'greater good' for them. They are the permanent misery of this summer, the mad dogs, ready to bite. I saw a man get in an altercation outside of a restaurant because he wasn't wearing a mask and got too close to another and it ended after a few minutes of shouting. I saw people driving like fools. I saw everyone trying to feel better but in this heat with everything that's going on there's no chance of that.

I came home with my prizes and my new look and everyone loved it. It's me. It's better like this. They took the groceries out of my arms and gave me hugs as I told them about how I *almost* came home but then finished what I set out to do (bravery is hard to come by for me) and am more relaxed for it.

I'm not leaving again until actual Indian Summer though. Mid-  to late September, we were always told but probably into October too, if that's what the official record says, to be certain.

Cabin in Candlelight version.

It feels like a Friday morning even though it's only Thursday, hot and dusty, dry and burning-bright. A day for long drives down familiar roads only to jump out and explore abandoned barns with glass bottles of orange crush, gulped down like water while I shake out polaroids and step on Lochlan's shoelaces, not paying attention, getting too close but never close enough.

God, I miss those days. But today is even better.

It's a day for bacon and eggs in the big skillet, fresh hot coffee and black rye bread with last summer's grape jelly. A day for very short dog walks (down the driveway and back, his legs are five inches tall, it's enough, trust me), and patio umbrellas and water-misters attached to the hose. Not-hot chocolate (thanks to Matt, who pulled out this surprise recipe which is a weird mousse-ice cream hybrid but he calls it frozen hot chocolate) to chill us from the inside out and mackerel and salad, picked from the garden being prepared for tonight's dinner.

I am blessed. Everyone is healthy, employed and safe. Everyone is happy. Everyone is navigating this strange time with grace and aplomb and I now try to take my cues from them in order to learn and to grow.

When the photos develop every one is of us, slightly out of focus, not quite ready but smiling even as we wait to get a cue like say cheese but selfies don't work like that. The pictures he'll stick on the dashboard of the truck where they will fade in the sun, melting in the heat into an unrecognizable but precious memory all the same.

Love you to the bones.

Open fire on the needs designed
On my knees for you
Open fire on my knees desires
What I need from you

I was trying to figure out the words. I couldn't do it drunk, I couldn't do it sober. He was patient. He finally got irritated enough to deploy the worst nickname he has for me and I hate it so much. He started calling me it when I wouldn't snap out of a undeserved mood or wouldn't listen to reason after an appropriate amount of time.

He's not saying on the needs, he's saying underneath. I think all of these lyrics are posted wrong.

Okay, Sad Clown. That's enough of that song for now. 

I only played it eight times. Okay, more like twenty. It's a very Nirvana song though it's Silverchair. It's a good song. It came out the very first year of my life that I didn't run off to the circus for the season. The summer after I met Jake. The summer Ruth was born.

That's twenty-one years.

I'm not allowed to listen to sad songs? It's a challenge. It's also hot out still and Lochlan has long come down off his own lighting and we have resorted to lazy stabs, half-assed verbal punches and stinging insults. It's the death by a thousand cuts and we've been doing it since just before Daniel Johns was born and would go on to sing that song I can't honestly confirm the words to.

These are the hardest parts. When I just can't focus long enough, just can't hear it well enough so it, like me, gets louder and more annoying, a shriek on the breeze, a pained soul looking for a place to rest and finding so many but there's no peace in them.

I know what I'm supposed to do, it's just a very hard pill to swallow at this point. It didn't turn out like it was supposed it. This isn't how the song really goes.

Bridget. Please stop. 

Or what.

I'll become a sad clown too. And I hate playing that role. So much. It's a whisper rising in waves like the heat off the pool this morning.

Fair enough, I whisper back. I'll call a truce for this day but I can't promise I won't pick up my knives and my words tomorrow and we'll resume.

(For the record, these days the only unproblematic song in my life is Owl City's Fireflies. ROTFL.)

Drunk on stars and juniper perfume.

I've been living in the shade by the far side of the pool, staying hydrated (with gin, sorry, this is a good vintage) and wearing bikinis under pretty sundresses when necessary, and absolutely nothing when not. I've been cooking elaborate, wasted dinners and spending hours talking about life and love with Ruth and Henry, and I've been drowning my memories in the fire of every sunset to cross my path, only to see them resurrected like phoenixes in the light of the next new day.

This isn't working. Maybe I should drink mor-

Or maybe less, Lochlan is so helpful. So helpful. Content to stand back and watch as always, a cuckhold soul I would trade for no one else at this point, since, as Ben points out, he's enabling me to a fault, something even Ben didn't do.

Oh, but Ben's a liar too. Ben is the original watcher, as long as I can remember. Caleb is a go-getter, Ben is a sit-back-and-see-what-happens, but Lochlan is a steady flame. You can't blow him off, put him out, smother him or make him cold.

Thank God. I tested him and he's holding and that brings me to my knees with a gratitude you don't even know the depth of.

But as I said. It's hot. And I'm usually drunk. Because it's summer and if you don't take advantage of it it's gone before you know it and the cool dark early nights of fall will close in tight around you like a vise.

I don't like the heat.

Right now I'm...

Plotting to build a walk-in ice freezer just in the middle of the driveway because at least there's some shade up there but this is getting ridiculous. I'd call Emmett to build it but honestly I don't want to deal with anything else today. Too hot. Sitting beside the cold air vent. Wishing on a frozen star.

So hot. I want to barf.

Heatwave Jesus and the slow to realize.

This morning is beautiful. I'm painting flowers on the southwestern side of the garage. I'm watering plants. I'm going to harvest the potaotes today and maybe have another beer. I'm trying to self-care without instructions. Then I'll sit at the bottom of the pool for far longer than anyone's comfort like every teenage boy in every movie ever made when the going gets tough.

But first, coffee. Coffee and an admission that I did indeed go looking to quiet my curiosity last evening but my curiosity quieted me instead, as we stayed up super late watching old movies and when I finally had enough and went up I knocked softly on Caleb's door and then finally let myself in. His rooms were dark and he was asleep in bed, covers thrown back, ceiling fan looping gently overhead. I let myself out again and went down the hall to my own rooms, asleep before I even got undressed.

Sam is playing Podcast Jesus again in deference to the coming heat wave, choosing to have people stay in and listen over sitting in a stuffy church trying to stay cool with masks on, baptized in hand sanitizer instead of saltwater, and I don't blame him one bit. He asked if he should just do a standard sermon and keep it formal but the answer to that suggestion is always no. Sam is better when he just talks from the heart, keeping things fluid and casual. I think I could listen to his voice all day and then I remember I can. I grab my gardening gloves and my airpods and head out to the garden. I never thought before to bring my music outside but on Sunday mornings this is even better, I think. I can show Jesus my efforts and he can call it a miracle and do nothing to help and I'll point out the only reason we're both here is because of his dad's good graces and he'll laugh and tell me I'm probably, no, one hundred percent right.

Bridget don't float.

I'm on the biggest floating chair, it's Ben's and he loves it because his weight doesn't sink his backside into the water like most of the other floats so I can bring a drink, sunglasses, a good book and even my phone (if no one's looking). I got out there early to get it. Ben won't go outside in this heat but I wanted at least thirty minutes with my Vonnegut (the Ms. Rosewater one, bought it and promptly lost it and found it the other night) and some silence before the point comes alive. The boys always want to build things, do landscaping, work on or clean trucks and then play hard in the pool before drifting off to rest or watch movies after dinner so I like to wake up very early sometimes and have some quiet time before then.

Except they won't leave me alone. Lochlan can see me from his chaise up above and Caleb is up and dressed in a light tank and his swim shorts, sitting at the other end of the pool in the shade on a lounger, checking his bank accounts, probably.

What are you drinking? He asks without looking at me.


Lemonade, I say. It's the truth, though it's eight in the morning and it's Bad Tattoo lemonade on an empty stomach in the sun.

(Why?

Why not?)

As I said. My sole focus right now is managing this anxiety before it begins to manage me.

What is that?

Busted. I show him the can. It's a pretty label.

Bridget, you haven't had breakfast yet. Also, what is that?

I said already. Lemonade. 

Kind of lowbrow. I can make you a mimosa-

Lowbrow? I lean forward in my chair to stare at him. Have you met me? 

You know what I mean. 

Not sure that I do. Want me to go don a Valentino so I can float to your standards? 

Neamhchiontach-

Oh, fuck off.  I slump down in the chair and tune him out.

But I forgot he's in his trunks and within a second he is beside me. Did you tell me to fuck off?

Is that lowbrow enough since you're slumming with the freak today?

I meant the stupid drink. It's not a reflection on you. You have the world at your fingertips so I was pointing out I could get you a nicer drink. 

I have the drink I want. 

Noted. 

Stop curating me. 

'Curating' you? 

Yes, dressing me up and putting accessories in my hands that you approve of. Just let me make my own way. 

Ah. This is not about me. 

I'm sorry? 

Lochlan's parental tendencies come back like PTSD whenever I try and lead-

Leave him out of it. 

Boy, you are cranky. Let me know if you need another. He nods at my can and strides back to the steps, leaving the pool.

I will. Thank you. I say it politely and return to Vonnegut. I don't know if this book is even my thing but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

And never ever tell me to fuck off ever again, he warns.


Or what?

You don't want to find out. 

Well, now I'm curious. Dammit.

On the crowning of a new memory thief: Introducing the memory keeper.

(Instead of stealing them he brings them back as they try and run.)

But I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss
I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs
The smell of smoke would hang around this long
'Cause I knew everything when I was young
I knew I'd curse you for the longest time
Chasing shadows in the grocery line
I knew you'd miss me once the thrill expired
And you'd be standing in my front porch light
And I knew you'd come back to me

On a smoky, rain-soaked Friday morning we were chasing nostalgia like a fox through the meadow, tripping over clumps of wildflowers, laughing at each other, stealing kisses and hearts with abandon, without responsibility, having left the weight of the fortune teller's premonitions at the last rest stop, on the curb before you pull up to the pump to spend your last twenty in the fierce humidity of late summer.

My sweatshirt is three sizes too big and has ADIDAS written on it. It's black with white stripes down each arm. It's Lochlan's but I got cold so he took it off and now I trace the goosebumps like a galaxy on his arm while he drives. His face is dreamy, focused on the highway but his mind is a thousand miles away, chasing dreams he's written on paper like promises, promises he'll never keep for the future has rules and none of this is permanent. None of this is real life. None of this will stick around when things get hard. He holds my face in his hands after the sweetest kiss I've ever shared and he says this is a memory we are living real time and he tells me to soak up every last detail, that it is magical and I can conjure it up whenever I want later.

And he was right.