Made it.

Orca and I reached the Jackson waypoint,
     which is technically Pearl,
              technically the luxurious Candlewood Suites,

              _exactly_ the kind of place a road trip chooses

              when the day has done enough.

We stopped a few times.

More than a few,
     if Orca is asked
           under oath.

Love’s offered a dog park,
       and Orca considered it
       with the full seriousness

       of a woman evaluating real estate.

No.

Apparently,
           that was not
           a _real_ rest stop.

So we found one,
   then another,
   then another…

   because standards matter,
   and Orca is not here to pretend otherwise.

Somewhere along the way,
          we sent you a video—

          proof of life,
          proof of dog,
          proof that the road
          had not yet eaten us.

Around five or six,
       you apologized
        for being MIA.

No need, truly.

I expected more distance.

Not because I wanted it,
    but because I know
    how hurt sometimes moves
    through you:

    quieter first,
    farther back,

    letting the feeling find its edges
    before it comes close again.

So when you appeared,
    I was just happy.

Probably too happy,
         if the next few rest stops
         are allowed to testify
         about my texting habits.

Not too much,
      I hope.

Just enough.

Enough to let the miles know
       they did not get
              all of me.

Enough to keep
       a little thread
       stretched between Atlanta,
                     Mississippi,
and wherever we weren't together.

Then we got here.

Before the room key,
       before the luggage,
       before either of us had fully agreed
       to stop being in the car,

       Orca popped up behind me,
                     tongue out,
                    eyes bright,
    looking like the whole trip

    had been arranged for this exact photo.

I had the Ray Bans on,
      the backwards cap,
      the tired-road face

      of a man trying to look casual
      about being very relieved.

She looked perfectly posable.

So I did
     what any reasonable staff member
     would do: I took the picture.

Sent it.

A few hours later,
    the heart hit.

And that was the real arrival.

Not the room key,
    the parking lot,
    the little map dot…

Your little yes
     crossing the dark after me.

That’s when _I_ felt it: made it.

All the way
    to the first place
    I could miss you from

     and still feel found.