The Logistics of Luck

Mari—

This one’s simple.

If you hadn’t pulled me to Atlanta,
  I’d have been in Puerto Vallarta
         at exactly the wrong time.

You got me to that first All-Pack party.
You kept me there for this one.

You put my feet on the dance floor
          instead of on the street
     that burned through the night.

Sunday morning I’m rushing,
   hungover and half-human,
   TSA shuts down PreCheck…

                 Of course.

I’m last on the plane.

Bag twenty rows back.

Phone dying in my hand
      after vibrating itself raw.

Then: maintenance delay.

Forty-five minutes on the tarmac
      with a dead screen
      and that awful feeling:

      you never want to be unreachable
      when your phone is flashing red.

Wheels up.
Walk of shame to the back.
Charger found.

Bloody Mary ordered
       to make my nerves behave.

Phone… boots.

And there it is:

PV on fire.
   _My_ part of town.
        Airport stormed.
                Chaos everywhere.

And the craziest part?

No direct flight back. (that never happens)

I’m connecting through Mexico City.

So when we land in MEX,
   I don’t go to the gate.

I walk out the front doors,
        plug into the wall,
  and start counting heads—

Compa, the crew,
       everybody accounted for,
       breathing again only when I know

       they're _all_ *safe*.

Then I look around and realize:
                  I’m stranded,
                 but I’m alive.

All because you said “come.”
All because you kept me here.

So yeah—
   call it luck,
   call it logistics,

   call it the universe showing off.

I’m calling it you.

Thank you
      for getting me out of a war zone
          without even knowing you did.

I’m still here…
    because of a night

    I could *not* miss.