Hey, Mari—

Sorry today’s so busy. (no day off here, either)

You’ve also got family around,
    the Hawks to half-cheer for,
    work to pretend to care about,
    should be enough going on to keep you from fully missing me—

    but not quite enough to stop it from sneaking in.

I’m at dinner with Ava and Mom tonight.

There’ll be laughter.

There’ll be brisket.

There might even be a cocktail worth a damn. (if I'm lucky)

But in the middle of all that,
    I’ll be texting you,
    waiting for that next little ding,
    the one that says you’re still with me…

    even while you’re surrounded.

Because we’re both *almost* where we want to be.
                    Almost next to each other.
                    Almost able to whisper something dumb…

                    over fast breaks humming in the background.

Mavs-Grizzlies, Hawks-Heat—
    one screen for each of us.
    One eye on the score,

    one on the little green “typing…” at the top of my screen.

I know we’ll joke
    about booking some convoluted layover
    in Memphis or Miami or Montreal…

    just to see each other for 22 minutes in a terminal.

We won’t do it. (we’ll almost do it)

Instead,
    we’ll keep texting,   (appropriately)
    sharing our songs,    (our language)
    half-sent thoughts,   (no deletes)
    full-heart responses. (always)

And somewhere between
    your plate
    and my second round of mashed potatoes,
    I’ll realize something:

    This isn’t missing.
    This is *almost-having*.

This is so close—
    it burns a little,
    so constant I forget it isn’t normal…

    so rare it still catches me off guard.

And tonight,
    if the Hawks win,
    and the Mavs lose,
    or the other way around—

    I won’t really care. (well, maybe a little)

Because I’ll still be watching
    my team,
    your team,
    our thread of nonsense—

    weaving two worlds into one,
    stitching the distance tighter…
    than any time zones ever could.

And that?

That’s enough. (for now)

(Almost)