Apologies, to my creation for these wasted daysUneasy peace settles like a pall over the darkened house. I draw my finely-knit wrap around my shoulders a little tighter and take the clip out of my hair so that my neck and shoulders are protected from imaginary chill. I'm looking for things that bring warmth today and finding that everything is temporary and even the incredibly familiar things I love so feel somewhat useless this morning.
My transcendence has a bitter face
Dreams are built and spent with might
And I'm sorry cause I never fight
And in the aftermath, dreams just altruistic sayings
My just emotion throws, apart, unique, I didn't even care
So look away your life is past and you let the chances cave
And all our cares of the moment have given us our names
There is no church. Sam is still away and I could go and listen for the community service but it isn't the same. I look after the household chores automatically, distractedly. Check the children, spool up the stereo downstairs, because the big black iron grates in every room that deliver the heat also deliver the sound if it's tuned just right. Marc Arcand's voice, my absolute favorite voice in the whole world, living or dead and oh, didn't that annoy Jacob so badly but it became a wasted argument because I would not budge, and we put it under the rug and tripped over the lump it made so very rarely as he learned the songs in spite of his displeasure over being usurped but I like voices and I never want to listen to my own because it surprises me. It always will do that when you can't hear yourself talk. So to hear Marc's voice so crystal clear, breathing included has always been a huge joy for me that perplexes everyone else.
Perfect example here.
Sigh. They are totally fledglingly adorable. Bridget has the sads that they have become a Quiet Band now. Ben has no issues, he knows his voice to me is a warm bath and the cruelest of familiar away-noise all at once. His voice is mine. It is my favorite too but only because I get to hear it relay the most depraved thoughts of me and I love that more than I can tell you right now because my mom (Hi mom) reads and it's Sunday, people.
Our storm seems to be dwindling but we won't know for sure until thirty hours from now. It's going to get cold and windy and then the sun will break through for the rest of the week, leaving the cold to linger because I hoped the unseasonable warm would remain but I never expected it to. Every step closer gets to happy though, right? Ben tells me that every night on the phone and I'm trying to believe in it despite the endless hours I spend alone.
Every step. Fuck this, I'm soon to break into a run. And when I do the chain on my necklace will lift, pulling the heart away from my skin, cooling it in the still night air and my hair will fly out behind me, tangling in knots and separating into waves like the streaks of green versus blue in the ocean at the cottage and the warmth of Ben's eyes will bring me in because I won't stumble until I see him smile and then and only then do I plan to fall apart again.
I have to be tougher than this. I will spend today sitting in the light by the window mending the holes in my armor, stitch by stitch, most likely with the stereo still on. You'll see. I'll sew until I can't feel my fingers anymore. I'll make you proud, baby.