Tonight, you’re closer—
       distance halved,
       compass shifted,
Fort Worth to St Louis
 feels more leaning in,
     less like leaving.

Parallel presence—
     you with your family,
     laughter spilling into rooms,
     grandkids,
        nieces,
       nephews,
     running circles around kitchen conversations.

Me here,
   Ava and Mom filling the air,
   quiet moments that speak without words,
   just familiar warmth,
   ranch sunsets unfolding,

   slow and gold and generous.

Echoes of each other:
  your stories ping softly off mine,
  my laughter finds your rhythm,

  your silence holds my pause.

Family noise,
       private silence—
       each in our own corner,
       keeping wordless company
       through the gentle chaos,

       knowing the other is there without needing to ask.

We’re not counting tonight,
      not marking days,
      but softly keeping time,
      a nod toward the week ahead—
                   not rushing it,

      just holding the space between now and then.

Tonight is sacredly ordinary:
                  not aching,
                 not longing,
             simply grateful—
  breathing in these moments,
          preparing to share

  stories that taste sweeter side by side.

Tonight,
     we’re not far—
     just a little closer,
     just a little easier,

     parallel lines tracing gently the path home.