Ava didn’t stir until 11,
    which technically makes it less of a pool day…

    and more of a pool half-day.

But I’m learning
    not to argue with rest
    when it finally shows up

    for someone I love.

So we let the day be easy.

Sun.
Pool.
Foods.
Drinks.
Talking.

The kind of talking
    that doesn’t need minutes kept
    or meaning assigned—

    not yet, at least. (and maybe not ever)

Just us,
        doing the Vallarta version of ambitious:

                                      sunscreen,
                                     shade math,
                              a little floating,
                               a little silence,
                               nothing to solve…

      unless you count where to point the chair.

And all the while,
    the thread kept getting stronger.

Mari there
     in the small bright openings
     between pool towels and Ava stories…

     and whatever the sun was doing to my shoulders.

Not taking the day from the person beside me.

Just present.

Steady.

The kind of steady that can sit in your pocket
                     without becoming a weight.

By evening—

   Ava wanted adventure.

Which is how a perfectly chill day
      turns around,
            puts on shoes,

            and starts making demands.

So off we went to Andales,
   seeking a Desperate Housewife

   or whatever else the night was willing to offer.

The fajitas arrived
    with suspiciously good timing.

Load-bearing fajitas, as it turns out,
          because not long after that
            Ava looked at me and said:

            “Let’s get piercings.”

Well.

Alright then.

Fatherhood is weird.

Sometimes it’s patience.
Sometimes it’s paperwork.

Sometimes it’s standing
     in Centro Vallarta,
        full of fajitas,
  looking for a piercer

  because my daughter had decided
  the evening needed a plot twist.

We found Mystic Tattoo & Piercing,
        which sounds like a place
             the universe made up
                because it _knew_

I’d eventually have to write this.

Ten minutes later,
    Ava’s admiring her new belly button ring,
    and I’m walkin’ away with a left nipple barbell,

    which is not a sentence I expected to survive into adulthood.

But here we are.

Needle.

Thread.

One went through skin.

One kept going.

Dinner came after,
       Jonny and family again,
        the usual table noise

        and all the soft logistics
        of people traveling together

        without quite becoming a plan.

I kept the thread going as long as my body allowed.

I’d woken up at 6:25,
        and by 10:30
    the day had become an endurance event

    with better scenery.

My eyes were closing.

The room was calling.

Everything in me was ready to power down,
           except the part that wanted to write Mari.

Turns out—
      it was hair night for her,

      so the output was thin on her side.

No worries.

I typed enough for both of us.

And then some.

Because apparently there is a kind of tired
        that can take the legs,
                 take the eyes,
                 take the whole sun-drunk body,

        and still leave one little light on over the desk.

Atlanta’s getting closer.

Then Montreal.

Then engines,
     grandstands,
     that first stupid grin

     when the cars come by, louder than thought.

Finally answering the question:

       “Is it really all it’s been cracked up to be?”

I wanna find out with her.

I wanna get TF back to Atlanta,
          then on to the track,
      carrying this ridiculous,
                     sunburned,

    pierced little day with me.

Ava beside me for the adventure.

Mari at the other end of the thread.

And me,
    somehow lucky enough
    to be held…

    by both.