The conference ended
    the way good conferences
    are allowed to end:

                  full,
                 tired,
   a little talked-out,
     and still somehow

         glad for one more table.

Aaron and I did Vegas
      at a reasonable human scale,
      eating,
      watching Nine Fine Irishmen
      do Nine Fine Irishmen things…

      the kind of place
      where the room seems convinced
      the night can be solved

      with enough dark wood and noise.

You know Aaron,
    so you know that worked for us.

Or worked enough.

Then morning showed up
     with absolutely no manners.

Up at 4 a.m.,
      flight at 6,
      Vegas still blinking
      like it hadn’t been told

      the night was over.

I got to DFW,
  scooped Orca,
  and we pointed ourselves toward Atlanta
  with the kind of confidence
  only a fresh tank,
  a reunited dog,

  and poor memory can provide.

Forty minutes later,
      the road corrected us.

Two hours of slowdown,
    because apparently
    making good time
    is one of those phrases

    the universe considers a dare.

Fine.

We were only planning on Jackson today anyway.

The road didn’t need
     to be conquered.

It only needed
   to be handled
       in pieces.

So we let it get smaller.

DFW to Jackson.

Then less than that.

Then this:
     a rest stop,
     somewhere along the line,
     because Orca noticed
     it was past dinner time
     and made the executive decision
     that whatever _I_ thought the schedule was…

     the schedule had failed to consult management.

Hard to argue.

She’s eating.

I sit here—
  with the road noise moving behind us,
                  not stopped, exactly…

                just held for a minute
                in the kind of nowhere
            a trip sometimes gives you

   so the day can catch up to the body.

Halfway to halfway.

Not home,
    not Jackson,
    not even that useful middle
        of the whole damn thing.

Just the middle of the day’s smaller promise.

There are days when “enough”
      has to become the official unit of measurement.

Enough sleep to make the flight.

Enough coffee to forgive 4 a.m.

Enough patience for the slowdown.

Enough road to say we moved.

Enough stopping
       to keep Orca
       from filing a formal complaint.

And enough thread running back to you
    that even the rest stop
    feels less like nowhere
    than a place I can set down
    one more proof:

    we are on our way.

Slowly, maybe.

But on our way.

Sunday is waiting
       with its own little flag
       in the ground:

       your half-birthday,
       the World Cup final,
       whatever fun the day decides

       it can responsibly hold.

All roads point there first.

Then Monday,
     still Monday,
     still ours,
     still doing that thing

     where the whole map
     pretends to be logistics…

     when really it’s just practicing
     how to bring me back within reach.

For now,
    Orca’s eatin’,
    Nero’s waitin’,
    Jackson’s still out there
    pretending to be tonight’s finish line,

    and I’m here,
    halfway to halfway,
    learning again that coming home

                   isn’t one motion.

It’s a series
     of smaller arrivals,
     each one pointed
     in the same direction:

     toward Sunday,
     toward Monday,
     toward you.