Six days out—
    and she’s packing today, too.

Headed home,
    STL-bound,

    folding clothes and plans into neat stacks.

I picture her carry-on
    perfectly organized,
    every outfit matched,
    every detail considered,
    every scenario planned.

Mine?

An evolving pile of optimism
    and half-folded shirts,
    rolled-up anxiety,

    and a half-read book.

We’re both preparing—
    just in different ways.

She packs for family,
    tradition,
    laughter,

    and probably rain. (showers Thu-Sun)

I pack for her.

And for every mile between
    Fort Worth and Atlanta,
    between family weekend
    and seeing her face again…

    I fold another day into place,
    tuck another thought into a corner.

In this carry-on,
    there’s anticipation,
    an embarrassing number of texts,
    a playlist I made three times,
    and patience,

    carefully rolled, barely fitting—

Wondering how something
    that feels so heavy

    could ever be classified as "light baggage."

And I wonder if somewhere,
    in the careful compartments
    of her own bag,
    there’s a tiny space saved
    for thoughts like mine…

    a matching set of quiet wishes she’s chosen to carry on with her.

Now we carry on—
    her with lists and matched intentions,
    me with restless folded hope…

    each of us packing what we can,
    and leaving room for what’s still to come.