Yesterday,
          the thread came back
          while I was at dinner

          with Ava,
          mi Compa Jonny,
            _and_ family.

Which is to say:

      In the middle of actual life,
       right when I needed it most.

Not alone with the phone
    turning silence over
           like evidence.

Not pacing some little courtroom
    I built out of worry

    and bad lighting.

Just there.

A table.

People I love.

The regular noise
    of everybody being beautifully
             in and out of the way.

And then:

Mari.

Not fireworks.

Not the movie version.

No dramatic door
     kicked open
     by the third act.

Just the thread
     remembering its own name.

You said what I thought
          you might say.

One of those pauses.

A reset.

A little room.

The storm passing over
    without me acting like a meteorologist.

I think I did okay.

Didn't knock. (too much)

Didn't pull. (too hard)

I sat there
  with the bare thread,
       the bare page,
       the rude little phone

       refusing to become a telescope,

       and I tried to let quiet
                       be quiet.

Which, frankly,
       should count as cardio.

And then it held.

Not because I chased it down.

It held
   because maybe some things
      are allowed to breathe,

      and stop for a minute,

      without dying.

So now:
       back on track.

Careful phrase.

Dangerous phrase.

The kind of phrase
    that knows I will absolutely
      try to make too much of it.

But Thursday is sitting there
         with a boarding pass
                   and a grin.

Canadian Grand Prix.

Montreal.

Engines.

Friends.

Noise.

A bucket list item
    for both of us,
    which feels ridiculous

    and perfect

    because apparently
    the universe looked at us
    coming out of a cooldown
    and said:

Fine.

Go stand near something loud
   that only works
        because everybody respects
                the limits of the track.

There's a lesson in there,
                 probably.

No forcing the corner.

No proving the point after the safety car.

No trying to win the whole race on the first lap back.

Just us,
     green flag enough,
     walking toward the roar

     with the thread back in hand.

And the track,

      finally—

      loud,
      real,

      right in front of us.