Let's begin with a wax and end with an epiphany, shall we?
Lying in the hammock reading existentialist prose this morning in the vague darkness of a rainy day, drinking strong tea, a firm shadow on the floor beneath me where previously one would glimpse only a fleeting wisp of movement and light. Birdy Nam Nam reverberates from the stereo, packing sound into every nook and cranny in the whole house and spilling out around the edges, under windowsills and through rippled glass only to be cut off by the roar of the rain.
And so there are no lyrics today, but the next lapdance will be Escape. I never heard a song more in need of Stoli and a strobe light. At least that's what Jacob had to say about it.
A new chapter has begun in this novel.
Redefined lives, new boundaries and fresh hopes. New routines, renewed faith and an ache of experiences passed like tests in grade school.
I keep telling myself this over and over again. I keep breaking out into spontaneous smiles. I haven't done it in such a long time that Jacob has spent much of recent history on his knees praying his thanks,
One life lived and one more to go, on the cusp I tingle with anticipation, expectations I won't make in favor of just...seeing what happens. Just like the sunrise disintegrates into day only to be reborn in fire and fury at twilight. The stars push their way to the forefront of the sky's stage to silence us with awe.
I am a star, and I will light the way to the moon, my angel boy. To the moon.
I've got an Air Canada itinerary in my hands. But it isn't for the moon. It's for the coast. If the moon had a coast, I would be there, believe me. I'll talk about the trip shortly, but not today. Today I got a very short and distant email from Ben thanking me for not castrating him with my words here. I have no use for that. No, honestly had I written that entry the day after he cut me loose it might have been vastly different. You can tell when I'm not rational through what I write, and you can tell when the edge has been taken off what I'm saying. We seem to have returned to our adult ways, adult reactions and adult expectations. People come and go. Sometimes friendships are irreparably broken, like marriages, like homes, and like hearts.
It's life. It happens. Bridget's learning to roll with it, instead of being steamrolled by it.
There's nothing left to steamroll, maybe. No, probably not. The good news is I am good. Hearing aids, check. Medication-free, check. Rested, check. No longer grieving, check. No longer scared, check. No longer afraid to say things are good for fear of jinxing myself or appearing to pretend.
Bridget's not pretending nothing anymore.
She's also lost her ability to form sentences this morning. Blame it on an epic back massage in the big hammock. Blame it on naming tropical fish after impressionist painters and late night dim sum for eight. Blame it on bad weather clearing up a dusty fleeting city-spring and a very lovely dead tree in the backyard that I'm loathe to see cut down because it likes me. Or rather, I like it. It's dark and ugly in a sea of fresh green life. I named it Bridget's emo tree.
No mind, Jacob promised I could have my giant angel statue where the tree used to be. The one Cole wouldn't go for.
Poetic justice, baby. Cole didn't want any life-sized angels in my sightlines. And now that's all I see.
And I ran today.
It was a short run, but a good one nonetheless.
Can't you tell?