I went quiet on purpose—
  saw this rut beginning to rhyme,
  daily recaps dressing up as poems,
  box scores pretending to be feelings.

So I waited…
   to see if lightning would volunteer.

It didn’t.

Turns out my weather is smaller,
                         nearer—

           and that’s the point.

Tuesday, you texted “I’ll scoop you,”
    and suddenly the day had manners.

Pata Negra before we were due, (early—our favorite reservation)
     bar top chosen over the promise of linen.

Mussels that needed both our hands,
              your spicy margarita,
                 my Mexican coffee,
               NBA lights starting
                over our shoulders.

We didn’t kiss—
   I walked home with the ache,
     grateful to have an ache to walk with.

Wednesday never left the chat thread—
                              photos,
                               songs,
                     little nothings
    that always become the something.

Thursday, your flight to St. Louis
        wrote itself in my stomach.

You sent more music—some repeats, some new—
             and it stuck like good advice.

I tried a sonnet that didn’t trust me
  and deleted it before it learned my name.

Friday, the world lit up the wrong blue.
        I didn’t write the numbers down.

You sent two rare photos—
    the kind that turn a room into a held breath—
    and I answered with reverence:

    “received.”
    (There are places you own. I like them that way.)

Saturday began with Mr. C’s update:
                         arthritis—
 of course it’s pain, not stubborn.

Forgive me for not seeing the flinch,
                 for calling it will
                    when it was hurt.

Med schedule in place,
    raincheck on the burger,
    extra gentle patrols when I’m back.

You said you might never leave him again.
    I nodded at the screen.
    That makes sense.

I’ll travel to where the boy is,
     if that’s alright with you.

Today: homecoming traffic rolling past my window,
                   Jackets trying on big numbers,
                     me taxiing away from a gate
                      that owed me forty minutes,
                   hustling to Ava’s finale show
         so I can be audience and ride home both.

The next ten days are us:
    doctor waiting rooms,
                      PT,
                     ice,
     and a kitchen where
I remember how to be Dad.

We’ve done so much more than scoreboards.
      I’ve learned that “I’ll scoop you”
      is a three-word love poem;
      that bar tops can be altars,
      a low-light selfie can kneel a man,
      that a thread can carry a day

      without ever asking for applause.

Maybe the work was never lightning.

Maybe it’s this—
      tendering the tiny,
      keeping inventory of graces,
      letting a photo be a room we don’t speak in,
      practicing the yes that fits in a text bubble,

      promising a dog we’ll notice the next wince.

I’ll be back—
     to you,
     to Mr. C,
     to mussels and margaritas and the way

     your “I’ll scoop you” rearranges furniture.

Until then I’ll keep the small things bright—
                              a morning memo,
                             a borrowed song,
          a picture of the sky from seat 14A,

          because the little things
          are not decorations on the thing—
                        they are the thing…

          and I’m finally old enough to believe it.