It’s been a minute—
     not for lack of wanting,
     just the kind of week that eats hours whole:
     Ava,
     Coal,
     work,
     travel—

     zero focus, all love.

Yesterday you called four times.

Three more than _ever_
     …that told me *everything*.

So: I’m going there.

Train window,
      night in long ribbons,
      my bag packed with small mercies—

      Pamos, patience, the promise I can keep.

ETA Buckhead ~ 11 p.m.,
    porch-light math says “yes”.

I’ve only got a sliver—
     back out early Thursday,
     Thanksgiving with Ava and my family,

     then her birthday on the first. (cake already penciled in)

But I plan to leave enough quiet on your shoulders
                            to last you to the 7th.

We won’t overtalk it.
We’ll breathe.
We’ll let the hug do what words keep trying to.

I’ll be gentle with the door,
        softer with the room,

        quietest where the ache is speaking.

If you’re awake when I roll in,
   I’m yours for however long the clock behaves.

If you’re not,
   I’ll keep a seat while you sleep—
            Coal gets the first nod,
              I’ll get the next one.

I don’t have advice for grief—
  only presence,
  only the long hold that says “I’m here,”

  only time, shared until time helps.

Between now and dawn
        I’ll carry whatever you hand me,
        and set it back down where you can reach it again.

Tonight is simple:
        train → street → door → arms,
        and the soft inventory of what can wait until morning.

I’m coming, Mari.

Not soon…
         Now.

The hug is on the way.