Wheels up again—
  but this time,

  *not* to her.

This time,
   to mom.
   To Ava.
   To my sister and the ranch

   and the little traditions I sometimes forget I need.

I’ll sit at Oscar’s this afternoon
   with a Bloody in hand,
   typing to her like always,
   pretending I’m at Irby’s…

   that she might just walk in and steal a fry off my plate.

But she’s working.
   And I’m flying.
   And our lines only cross

   in pings and emojis… for now.

I wish she could see Ava perform.

*Beetlejuice* is going to bring the house down,
   and she’d love the chaos,
   the clever lines,

   the whole weird theater of it.

_God help me_,
   I’ll _try_ not to imagine
   her fingers tracing nonsense on my knee…

   like she's writing a secret she knows I'll never guess.

Easter’s at the ranch this year.
   More love,
   more laughter,

   more plates to clean.

And she’ll head home soon, too—
   back to STL,

   back to her own people.

We’ll both be surrounded.

We’ll both be missing.

But look: This isn't a travel log,
   this is *us*
   this is motion with meaning,

   *this* is what fills the seat beside me. (even when it's empty)

But for now—
   this is just a step in her direction.

One flight closer.

One family-filled pause—
   before the next arrival.