Monday 5 November 2012

(Not so) afraid.

Still floating soft
I am dreaming and I'm glad I lost
And still with my fingers
I'm drawing circles in the water
In the water
And still, still you're always there

Congratulations
Cause we've made it
All the way home
All the way home
And you know that
Until the stars fall
I will always love you
I will always love you
We are lying in the warmth of the cozy dark morning. Ben left hours ago (Finish the project, and then you can start another and we'll cut you a big fat cheque that totally makes up for your infinite absence from your own life. No worries, Dude, they say, and Ben nods because he's gloriously creative, overworked, beautiful and completely unable to tell the difference between too much and not enough).

Lochlan has my hands outstretched toward the ceiling. He's writing words in the air with my fingers, trying to make me read them. I can't make out the letters and he's frustrated but he's laughing softly, his head pressed tightly against mine while I sing Lost at Sea to him. We're flat on our backs wasting precious daylight and struggling to divide our common ground right down the middle. He is afraid that Caleb's banter back and forth will draw me in and leave him out in the cold. He's afraid tomorrow has me with one foot out the door. Ready to run headlong to the edge of the cliff where I will stop short (if I'm lucky) and wonder how the hell I got away from them again. I get away because I'm fast and terrible and unpredictable and a very bad singer besides.

I will be over to see Caleb later but only to make sure he isn't really drinking anything more than lots of water and juice. He shouldn't drink with his medications. He shouldn't do a lot of things but Caleb rules his own underworld and no number of experts could ever be brought in to make him see differently. Sometimes, though, he listens to me and maybe if I remind him that I am afraid of drunken rages, uncontrollable ideals and certain death, then just maybe he might hear me.

Cross your fingers.

Loch will stand outside in the rain at the bottom of the stairs and seethe with hatred and at the same time he'll heed my request to let me do the things I need to do to keep my shit together while the countdown gets narrower by the hour here.

Tomorrow is a day I wish I never have to wake up for. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll hide with my head under the blankets, headphones jammed in to block out the world and wait the whole thing out. But they don't call that progress, they call that denial.

(It wasn't, it won't be and I never! I insist but they don't listen.)

So for now, I'm just going to hold tight and guess wrong as he continues to write love notes in thin air while I begin the song again. This is a game we used to play years ago, albeit with different songs that I change as my mood dictate, snuggled down into the darkness when I would wake up afraid of the noise or the isolation or just the usual terrors of that age. Lochlan would take my hands and write stories across the night until I could follow them back to sleep, singing to both of us until I would just stop. It still works better than expected. My eyes are so heavy and I fail to lock my elbows to make his work easy. My arms sag against his hold and he turns and lifts his head up to look at me.

Tired girl this morning. 

Mmm hmmm.

Go back to sleep, Bridget.