I’m five days out,
     and honestly—

     I’ve never been so productive.

Taking extra on-call shifts,
       answering pages meant for someone else,

       like I owe them something. (I don’t)

Volunteering for side-quests
     on teams I don’t belong to,
     stacking work like sandbags
     against the flood of thoughts
     that rush in whenever my calendar clears.

Shopping for furniture
               for Ava—
           new shelves,
                chairs,
                tables—

     each delivery another distraction arriving just in time.

Disc golf sessions
     penciled in like therapy,
                missing putts,
               ripping drives
      to fend off the minutes,

     every hole filled with the restless bounce of anticipation.

And all along,
    I’ve imagined you—
                 calm,
            collected—

    cool in a way only you can pull off.

Safe at home in STL,
     surrounded by your circle,
           your laughter light,
                    smile easy.

But then your message lands—
                     softly,
                like a sigh:

"I’m just ready for you to be here."

Eight words,
      gentle as a whisper,
      but enough to know…

I’m not the only one
          this close,
       this restless,
    this beautifully,
          hopelessly,

               Crazy.