NYE

I took down the other post. Too personal, even for me. Too self-depricating, too sad for a beautiful day. Instead I've decided to just keep my resolutions simple.

I'll keep my boundaries, be kinder to myself, paint more, write more and eat a lot better, if I can. I'll drink less, get more accomplished and focus on the blessings instead of the curses, which is not something I come by naturally but is definitely something I can work on.

Weirdly formal, formally weird.

Now that the laptop is fixed (thank you Lochlan!), the ramen cravings have been satisfied, the main floor is vacuumed, laundry, errands, recycling and garbage is caught up, sundry decorations are all put away (trees and lights are still up) and Ruth's room looks more apartment, less bedroom (massive rearranging), I can relax.

Long day that started late and I'm not a huge fan of vacuuming at eight o'clock at night but I had to pull everything out of the front hall closet in order to fit a second shoe rack in there because there are too many shoes and it's getting ridiculous and with boots too for the snow it's beyond unorganized. I didn't realize how much until I got back into the truck to come home from lunch and saw that I had one black and one brown Doc Marten boot on. Oh great. Hope Ruth didn't plan on wearing hers because I have her left. Whoops.

So another rack and everything has a place now, but there was also a months worth of dried leaves in the closet. And a dog gate. And a scooter that's too small for anyone but me to ride and I don't want to ride it. And a baseboard from the castle in the Prairies but don't ask about that. Or maybe I've mentioned it. I don't remember.

Everything has a place now. Even the baseboard.

So I sit down with a drink (vodka and coke. The Russians left a huge bottle of Stoli as part of our gift and it doesn't fit in any cupboards. It's weirdly tall and thin and so we..drank it. Because I'm too classy to leave a bottle of alcohol sitting out or standing in the pantry but I'm not classy enough to save it or give it away.) and guess who comes strolling into the kitchen?

The Devil.

Who immediately decides he doesn't have to abide by the spoken rule that New Years Eve is off limits and invites me to go out with him. On a date. Dressed up. On a borrowed yacht. All the monte cristos and champagne my little busted heart desires. Fireworks. A clear cold night. Cuddles. New resolutions, made on the water I was born on, fused in salt, carved in the stones at the bottom of the sea.

I pick up the bottle and just drink straight from it because that sounds like a GREAT time and frankly I can be bought (but not by the Russians, because I sent back most of their gift to me with a lovely note explaining that I can only wear jewelry if it's from my husband and of course they understand but Fabergé is beautiful indeed and I'm very touched that they thought of me and to take care. In reality I'm peeing myself with fright because they might be offended) but Lochlan can't and his idea of New Years Eve is a roaring fire and snuggles and sleeping early and easily, maybe a whiskey, probably a meat pie and some cake and I'm sure there will be flannel involved and right up until Caleb said Fireworks on the water I thought the flannel + fire would be the best thing ever but..

Wait. It still is. It always will be. I've done both and the fire in the hearth wins every time.

Thank you but as I said I already have plans. 

Bring him. 

It's not a threesome kind of night. I burst out laughing. God. I'm an asshole.

You could change your plans. Or we could do a bit of both plans. 

Caleb-

Just tell me what you want to do. 

I did. And I'm sorry but you're not invited. (I'm touched that you thought of me and take care but please oh please don't be offended.) I'll see you later this week maybe. We can do something fun then. 

I don't want to be alone. His face. Oh my God, his face. Guilt renders me desperate.

Catch a flight home? 

Too late.

See what Ben is up to? 

He stares at me.

Batman is watching all the Star Wars. I think a few of the guys are joining him. Beers and pizza. We might even stop in. 

I want to ring in the New Year with you. Neamhchiontach. Please. 

I'm sorry. 

What will it take to change your mind? 

I take his hands and he covers mine with his while he waits for me to speak. Nothing. I'm sorry. You agreed readily to the plans we made this holiday and even with regret I'm not changing them. I'm looking forward to a quiet night with Lochlan, I'm in need of sleep and less stress and I'm not going to fight about this. I draw a line in the air with my mind. A very rare and precious boundary. And it holds.

New Years Day. Can I treat you to a late brunch? Like last year? So I can look forward to the morning?

Yes. 

Just you. 

Sure. 

Okay. I'll see you before the evening though so I'm not going to wish you a Happy New Year quite yet. 

Of course. 

This is Sam's doing? These..boundaries?

August's. 

Holding your ground? 

Yes. My resolutions are finally set. I'll tell you a few on Monday at brunch. 

Can't wait to hear them. 

I can't wait to try and make them stick. Hey. Speaking of which, what are yours? 

I'll tell you on Monday too. He smiles, just not with his eyes.

I'm not doing anything right now if you want to watch something with me. A movie or something? 

I'd like that. His eyes finally smile too.  Mind if I pour a drink? 

Be my guest.

Here's to the radical reformation of the sixteenth century! (And other stories for a rainy Friday afternoon.)

Annnnnnd back to Chrome, which half-loads every webpage and eats the other half and mostly doesn't quite work but Lochlan won't fix it.

In my next life I'll be a luddite. A pilgrim. An Amish..person. A Hutterite. I can bake and build and sew worth my salt. Technology? Fucking hell. I don't know my iOS from my elbow. I put a new hard drive in this machine on a dare but now I can't update to High Sierra. I can't turn off the updates though so every morning I hit a button that says "Try Tomorrow".

Indeed. Think I will.

This machine unexpectedly turns itself off every half hour or so. But I love this Macbook. It's eight years old now. Kind of like me, emotionally only this thing has no emotions, it's just cruel. But it's a lifeline in a strange way. All my words are in it. Well, the ones that aren't in my brain, I mean and after spending half a day trying to fix it I'm stuck leaving it the way it is. I just don't know.

I don't know how to fix it, I don't know what's wrong with it. I don't know what I'm doing and at this rate in about a week I'll be one of the little old ladies at the Apple store tables learning how to download an app or check my battery life. Not even kidding.

I can turn off lights with my mind though. Explain THAT.

Update: Lochlan finally took a look at it. Maybe he felt sorry for me, more likely he's worried I might figure out what else I can do with my mind, as I clearly haven't unlocked my special powers yet in any meaningful way, but like my rare anger, God help us all when I do.

But I have bad RAM as it turns out, and so we're going to get a couple of new sticks and get the inside of my laptop all cleaned out and it's like he found his patience again or maybe he was just that impressed that I invoked a wish to join the groups that eschew technology and never asked him for help. It's a Christmas miracle.

I know. You love it when I whine about my laptop.

(Sorry)

Records were meant to be broken, just like prayers are meant to be heard.

I've been trying to write my resolutions but I can't seem to get anywhere. I don't have to show them to anyone, don't have to read them out loud, don't even have to adhere to them if I chose not to but I've been putting off writing them the same way I put off going out this morning. We needed gas for the truck, needed groceries for the house (I hadn't been food shopping since the 19th if you can even believe it and we were out of everything), needed cash from the bank and had to drop off a chair that we were getting rid of.

I just can't seem to get moving. Life seems to be a slow-motion quicksand. It's just the time of year, that dark period right after the first day of winter when you don't observe the days getting shorter again quite yet and it's cold and dark seemingly all the time. I can't tell this to August or he'll drag out the SAD light and park me in front of it for days even as I tell him: It's just that time of year. He knows it. The fuss and excitement of Christmas comes to a squealing, grinding halt and you stare down the inevitability of a new year and all of the expectations it brings. Dancing? Champagne? Wool pajamas and a roaring fire? Skating on the pond? Board games and pizza? This ties in with those pesky resolutions. Should they be deep or shallow? Thick or thin? Obvious or profound? Maybe a little bit of everything? Maybe nothing at all.

Maybe they should be what I want them to be. Maybe they should just be what they already are to me: half unobtainable bucket list and half flighty bullshit promises. PJ said to write down the first things that come to mind. Sam tells me to keep a list that will make me into the best person I can be. Caleb says to shoot for the moon.  Lochlan says to be good.

Why again am I doing this?

Lochlan wrote another poem about my reluctance to celebrate New Years. Enjoy.

The new year comes knocking
So fast and so loud
She holds to the old one
So stubborn, so proud

It begs her attention
"So shiny! So new!"
She scowls with her mouth
"As if that will do!"

"I'll cling to the old one! 
I'll keep it right here! 
One thing is always easier than the unknown
and that's fear! 

So take away your new things 
your loud 'Auld Lang Syne'
I'll be right here
I'll be perfectly fine!"

Dear Peanut, it's coming
Whether you like it or not
So unclench your fingers
There's no strength you've got

To stay mired in the past
When you could come see what's new
I promise you'll like it
We'll be waiting for you.

I don't post on Christmas Day and other fun things you seem to forget in a fog of nutmeg and gingerbread.

Santa found me. So did the Devil, the magician, the best friend and the Russians! Jesus. I am spoiled. The children are spoiled. The boys are spoiled. The dog was spoiled. Actually, if anyone else feeds the dog 'just a taste' of what we're having, they're going to lose a hand, as he has a sensitive stomach and is already farting out the Ghosts of Christmas Past while he sleeps at my feet. Then I get blamed for it, believe it or not and the Ghosts of Christmas Present get all judgey and holier than thou.

But it's okay! I'm done my three days of cooking (as we now have enough leftovers to last us to Friday), every dish in the house is in use, and the recycling has already tripled. Lord help me. I'm about to finish off the bottle of wine started last night on the front porch with the Devil as we played Two Truths and a Lie, and then I'm going to sleep for fifteen more hours and Christmas will be finished, Sam will have his well-earned week off (just like Santa) and we will plunge ahead into the ever-popular and overly-incendiary New Years.

It all goes by so fast.

Merry Christmas to you!

Fixed it.

Give me my WISH! 

I fairly screamed it at them, my inner nine-year-old shining so bright I thought she might step out beside me. They stopped, unbelievably, pulling each other up to stand in front of me like two schoolyard bullies who just discovered the other was taking their turf, only to be reminded neither one of them can lay claim to it.

Which is, I suppose, exactly what's taking place here. Originally it was an agreement that started as 'they' and morphed into 'I' through a combination of jealousy, teenage indignation and ego and I'm trying to shift it back to 'they' with a heavy emphasis on 'him' because he used sweetness, magic and imagination, romance and beautiful promises to get where he is. Caleb chose to use force.

And so here we are.

It's now Christmas Eve and I sat up abruptly at six in the morning, sun not yet awake, head full of terrible nightmares and both of them sleeping soundly around me, Lochlan on my left, Caleb on my right, the remains of the night a distant, melancholic memory of a game of tug-of-war, forced generosity and burying hatchets so deep we are scarred for life.

The more the Devil digs in the harder the Magician holds and that's not a bad thing, in all honesty. My inner nine-year-old would tell you that without hesitating. She would tell you triumphantly that she got her wish after all and then she would promptly burst into tears.

We're getting bad at 'Solsticing.

When I opened the door Lochlan looked up in surprise. He was propped up against pillows on our bed, reading glasses on, hair wild, still wearing jeans and a long-sleeved thermal t-shirt. He had both lights on and was reading, a glass of untouched whiskey and his phone at his side.

The book hit the floor and he was in front of me in seconds. Everything okay? 

Yes. I got sent home after dinner with my present. Look. I open the box and try to show him the float but he's sorting out everything before that.

What happened?

I relay the evening to him as his tension visibly exits his body and then he pulls me in close to hold. The box juts up painfully against my collarbone and he finally takes it, placing it securely on the bureau as he turns and takes his shirt off.

So no nights?

He wants things to get better. I think he's really trying. 

That or he doesn't want your little germy self making him sick too. 

Could be. 

He smiles so languidly I think I might cry as he starts in on me, taking me out of my things, kissing my forehead (worn smooth again, Christ. I wish they'd kiss other parts), gently leading me back to his side of the bed, picking up the book and putting it on the shelf below the drawer, taking off his glasses, then turning off the lights, plunging us into the warm dark of the solstice interrupted, an event I will still forever hate and one he reluctantly celebrates. He twists me away from him and then pulls me back in close, my back against his chest, wrapping his arms tight around me. With his breath against the top of my head and his arms like that, keeping me pinned hard into him I find an easy rhythm to match his and we finish the night the way he wanted but couldn't hope for. When Lochlan lets go just enough for me to catch my breath he waits barely a heartbeat before pulling me back in, his mouth against my ear.

Finally got what I wished for back in 1980. 

We've done this a million times, Locket. 

No. I wished for him to not touch you anymore. 

He hadn't touched me yet, though. 

Sure he had. You just called it affection. 

Still do. 

I know you do. My new wish is for you to stop doing that. 

Never! 

He laughs. So, so relieved that you're home where you belong. 

Yeah, me too. 

If you're not okay with going there, we can stop-

It's fine. It's just tough sometimes. 

I can only imagine how hard it is. His arm tighten again and he's asleep in seconds, a soft purr of a snore rising from his uncongested face. I'm jealous, as my nose is blocked and I'm going to sound like a chainsaw.

But I can't fall asleep.

***

This morning there was an envelope in my coffee cup. Inside a beautiful lace-cut page with Caleb's handwriting.

Tonight. It's not Christmas Eve yet. 

Oh, well, there he is. Right where I left him.

I'll go see him. Any hint of tenderness in Lochlan's very being just let out with an audible snap. There goes my solstice wish. It was nice while it lasted. He reads my mind. Yeah, funny how that works, isn't it?

Salt + smoke.

To free all those who trust in Him
From Satan's power and might
Oh tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
Oh tidings of comfort and joy

Every time I see him my brain goes into emotional recall. My heart lurches forward effusively, recklessly and my body hesitates, somewhere in between, torn between my heart yelling GO GO GO in one direction and my brain signalling flight the other way. I usually hesitate too long, just long enough for him to notice, the bloom of shared memories clouding his vision, his plans, everything with the dim light of darkness that we try to outrun but never seem quite able to.

A walk on the beach culminated in a formal, unfamiliar toast by the sea, by the bonfire he surprised me with, by words I haven't heard him say before, watching him struggle in a way I haven't seen before. It was sobering, a feeling the champagne couldn't smash its way through and didn't even try, flooding in to cover his words before harmlessly washing back out to sea, drawn up with the tides. Caleb took my hand, picked up the bottle with his other hand and we came back up from the beach in the dark, the bonfire drowned in its own flames and saltwater.

He didn't disappoint. We lit the big copper lantern that hangs outside the stable, just where you turn the corner in the driveway and come down the hill toward the houses. Then inside where he had a fire already going, smells of pot roast and woodsmoke mingling beautifully throughout.

You smell like salt.

Salt and smoke.

Salt and smoke. It's intoxicating.

I stiffen perceptibly. He notices but does not remark, covering easily. You sit up here and I'll get dinner together. I offered to help but he wouldn't have it and soon we were taking our plates outside to the tiny glass table underneath the patio heater.

He had a blanket draped on the back of each chair nonetheless and the Christmas lights on that trailed along the railing and then down along the fence too. Magical. Tealights in shells were scattered all over the table, all over the floor and along the railing. Dinner was indeed pot roast, potatoes and mushrooms in earthenware bowls, along with some big hunks of multigrain breads and whiskey in tumblers. Water too. Another toast and we dug in.

Jesus. You need to cook more. My mouth is full but holy cow. This is wonderful. So good.

He laughs. I'd be delighted to. A look passes between us and I realize it's getting very late to match the very dark. I'm not cold but that vague unsettled chill remains that I can't shake, that undercurrent of excitement mixed with dread. I know how late it is. I know what this night is.

You're cold. Let's head inside. Are you finished? Did you want more bread first?

No, thank you. I'm perfect. I smile but not with my eyes. I try, but not all that hard. We stand up and I try to help him with the dishes but he won't let me.

He smiles back, disappointment crashing in to fill the void where hope was, just momentarily. His eyes are hard. The wall is going up. I can almost see it from here.

Get the door for me? 

Of course. 

Once inside he leaves the tray on the counter and pours fresh drinks for us. My whole being is thrumming already from anxiety and firelight and alcohol. My blood sugar soars to the surface along with a flush that buries my summer freckles behind a pink cast.

We take our drinks in by the fire and he gets on his knees in front of me as I sit down. He has a box. It's a cube, actually. The size of his hands.

Open it.  

I stare at him.

Please, Bridget. 

I take the box but my eyes remain on him.

I think you're going to love this. 

What is it? 

Open it. 

I unwrap it and take the lid off. Inside is a glass fishing float. It's the most beautiful shade of palest teal with dozens of tiny air bubbles. It's thick. It's perfectly round and weathered just enough to be real.

Where did you get this? I breathe.

I found it on your beach. 

This is the holy grail of treasures. This is what I look for and I only ever find tiny rounded shards of sandblasted glass.

You didn't! When? 

Just before Halloween. 

So beautiful. 

Like you. Singular. Incredible. 

I shake my head. The knot of dread remains in the pit of my stomach, like it always does, even as I hold this beautiful glass ball in my hands.

Take it home and show Lochlan. 

Should I get your present? I thought we were waiting until Monday. 

We are. I wanted to give this to you alone. I'll see you tomorrow, okay? You can tell me what everyone thought of it. 

You don't want me to come back? 

Unless there's something we've forgotten, our solstice celebration is complete, I think. 

Cale-

Bridget, I told you I want this new year to be different. I want everything to be different.  Now for Gods sake, get out of my sight before I change my mind.

I check the dread that turns to relief, welling up, spilling over so he can't see it, I finish my drink in one go and I pack the weight carefully back into the box for the trip across the driveway.

Goodnight, Diabhal. 

Goodnight, my Neamhchiontach. Enjoy your treasure. 

But his eyes. As blue as the glass, as sad as the sea. On impulse I run back and kiss him on the cheek.

I'm glad you like it. Now go. Please. Hurry.

The naiveté scene.

The fear is not mine
The fear is not my end
Though you attempt to keep me in it
The weight is not mine
The weight is not mine alone
Though you pretend to comprehend it

Caleb chose Yule this year to spend over the holidays. Solstice. The longest night. He's been talking of it quietly to me all week. A walk on the beach at sunset to say goodbye to the light. Lighting the copper lantern by the woods to see us through the dark. A fire already laid in the stove to light when we return. A hearty feast with beef stew, bread and wine to close out the evening. A quiet exchange of our fondest and most fervent wishes for the new year as a solemn marking of this change into the beginning of the cold season. Lighting the tree. Exchanging presents. Seeing each other through the night until the sun rises again so long from now.

It's already beginning to grow dim already as the moon chases the sun back over the horizon while the Devil chases new traditions into our lives wrapped around old ceremonies, played out simpler once, though much the same.

He pulls the stolen lighter out of his pocket as we all stand in a circle in the woods in the snow.

Where did you get that?

My uncle left it in our truck, Caleb says confidently, flicking it several times with the typical surety of a fifteen-year-old who's seen it done a few times but only ever lit matches before now.

Mom's going to kill you. Cole is sure he'll be the victorious brother, though he hangs on every word Caleb says.

So what do we do now? Lochlan has his own lighter and so he finds this amusing but he watches the flame, hypnotized as always by the way it dances.

Are we supposed to sacrifice a fair maiden? Christian asks, not totally unseriously.

All eyes turn to me.

I'm not a maiden. I'm only nine! It's really cold and my boots are leaking. My toes are about to fall off but I have to wait for them because if we're this far down the path I'm not allowed to go back to our street by myself. I have to wait for Lochlan or Caleb to bring me. Unless they sacrifice me, then I won't have to go home.

No, dirtbag, we're not sacrificing Bridget. Caleb winks at me as he gets down and starts a tiny fire on a rock that isn't snow-covered, snapping small branches off, adding them to a pile along with some homework pages he had in his back pocket. Today was the last day of school. He gets the fire going and then passes out slips of what's left of the paper. We all have to write down one thing we want to say goodbye to in 1980.

I take the proffered pen and turn to write against a rock that sits just outside the circle. It's wet so the pen doesn't work very well.

I fold it up and wait for Caleb's instructions. Each of the boys throw their slips into the fire one at a time, watching them burn before moving on to the next. Finally they get to me and I throw my slip at the fire but the fire is hot and very tall now so the paper falls short, opening as it lands a foot away from the flames.

Caleb picks it up and reads it silently before folding it back up and putting it into the fire. His eyes meet mine.

Rob asks what it says.

I'm the firekeeper so I can see them but they're supposed to be private. Caleb tells him with bravado. I don't think she'll get her wish though. He's not looking at me anymore. He's watching Lochlan, who is staring at me from our curve in the circle, probably wondering what I wished for, not realizing that it would take so many more solstices to come true but my hope for this year is that my nine-year-old's wish finally has.

What was your wish that night? I snap back to the present as Caleb comes back into the room from sorting out a couple of details with Lochlan. Namely when I'll be returned and confirming what Caleb doesn't get (Christmas eve through Boxing day) because he gets tonight and tonight is somewhat sacred to the Collective, something we've observed every year since.

That we would spend this night alone together. I think tonight we can celebrate the realization that our wishes came true at the same time. 

Until one of you throws a punch, you mean. (My wish? That Locklen and Calib stop fiteing. Ha. The spelling skills of a grade five student who daydreamed instead of working in her practice book.)


Right. Until then.