Father’s Day Weekend
         gave me Ava under stage lights,
         carrying Newsies with a Spotlight cast
         in the kind of show
      where the kid you know

      walks out

      and becomes the person the room has to notice.

She was amazing.

That’s the whole review.

Amazing.

And I got to sit there
    doing the dad thing,
    which is mostly
    trying to keep the chest

    from saying too much out loud.

Afterward,
          Orca and I,
          Oscar’s patio,
          where her stardom
          continues its quiet,

          hostile takeover of Fort Worth.

The little couch
    is not really
    a little couch anymore.

It’s a throne.

She knows it.

The patio crowd knows it.

I’m just the staff
          assigned
to leash logistics
 and water service.

Around nine,
       Ava finished
       the after-party portion
       of being celebrated

       and wanted _real food_.

Reasonable.

So we went to Riscky’s BBQ,
               patio-bound
                 with Orca,

   hunting the kind of meat fix
   Fort Worth is legally obligated to provide.

And oh, it provided.

The kind of plate
    that makes conversation slow down…
                           for safety.

The kind of meal
    that does not end,

    exactly,

    so much as become a medical condition.

Home after that.

Meat coma.

Well-earned sleep
     waiting in the doorway
     like it had called ahead.

The whole day
    had the shape of full:
               stage full,
               patio full,
               plate full,
           dad-heart full,

    though I’ll deny the phrasing
    if questioned under oath.

And still,
    our thread
    was mostly bare.

Not dead.

Not gone.

Just thin.

Which made sense.

You were where
    grief had called you,
    and some days don't have
    much extra room for words.

So I sent
     the running novel
     from my side,
     as one does

     when silence needs company

     but not pressure.

Little proof
       that the day kept moving over here
       through Orca’s couch-throne,
       Ava’s after-show glow,
       and enough BBQ
       to make sleep feel inevitable…

       while yours carried weight
       I wouldn’t ask to inspect.

Then,
     near the end,
     the few messages came.

Few,
     but not small.

The thread had been bare,
    but suddenly
    it was heavy enough

    to change the whole room.

You missed me.

Then you missed me
     in a way
     I did not know.

Then you missed me
     in a way
     even you
     could not quite believe.

Three layers
     of missing.

One on top
    of the next,
    each one a little closer
    to the part of me

    that starts looking for airports
    without permission.

Enough—
       to make me wanna
        jump on a plane.

Immediately, ridiculously.

But I can’t.

Nero’s here.

Orca’s here.

Atlanta ain’t where you are,
                    not yet.

And even when the map
    starts pretending there must be
    some secret shortcut,

    the calendar keeps standing there
    with its stupid clipboard.

Tuesday night,
        you have coworkers
        in town for dinner.

So, Tuesday I drive.

Which means
      the earliest version
      of us with arms around it

      is Wednesday.

At _least_ Wednesday.

Brutal.

But fine.

Because Saturday gave me plenty:

                    Ava shining,
                    Orca ruling,
                friends and BBQ,

        the good tired of a day
       that didn’t waste itself.

But then your missing
    arrived in threes,
    and suddenly all that fullness

    had one empty chair it couldn’t explain away.

So I’ll take what the day gave.

And I’m counting
    toward Wednesday
    with three layers of missing

    tucked under every number.