<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="yes"?><rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom"><channel><title>Pearl on Bougyman's Ramblings</title><link>/tags/pearl/</link><description>Recent content in Pearl on Bougyman's Ramblings</description><generator>Hugo -- gohugo.io</generator><language>en-us</language><copyright>© tjv 2024</copyright><lastBuildDate>Thu, 09 Jul 2026 21:28:50 -0500</lastBuildDate><atom:link href="/tags/pearl/index.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><item><title>Made It!</title><link>/posts/made-it/</link><pubDate>Thu, 09 Jul 2026 21:28:50 -0500</pubDate><guid>/posts/made-it/</guid><description>Jackson was the waypoint. The heart was the arrival…</description><content>&lt;div class="listingblock"&gt;
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&lt;pre class="highlight"&gt;&lt;code class="language-poem" data-lang="poem"&gt;Made it.
Orca and I reached the Jackson waypoint,
which is technically Pearl,
technically the luxurious Candlewood Suites,
_exactly_ the kind of place a road trip chooses
when the day has done enough.
We stopped a few times.
More than a few,
if Orca is asked
under oath.
Love’s offered a dog park,
and Orca considered it
with the full seriousness
of a woman evaluating real estate.
No.
Apparently,
that was not
a _real_ rest stop.
So we found one,
then another,
then another…
because standards matter,
and Orca is not here to pretend otherwise.
Somewhere along the way,
we sent you a video—
proof of life,
proof of dog,
proof that the road
had not yet eaten us.
Around five or six,
you apologized
for being MIA.
No need, truly.
I expected more distance.
Not because I wanted it,
but because I know
how hurt sometimes moves
through you:
quieter first,
farther back,
letting the feeling find its edges
before it comes close again.
So when you appeared,
I was just happy.
Probably too happy,
if the next few rest stops
are allowed to testify
about my texting habits.
Not too much,
I hope.
Just enough.
Enough to let the miles know
they did not get
all of me.
Enough to keep
a little thread
stretched between Atlanta,
Mississippi,
and wherever we weren&amp;#39;t together.
Then we got here.
Before the room key,
before the luggage,
before either of us had fully agreed
to stop being in the car,
Orca popped up behind me,
tongue out,
eyes bright,
looking like the whole trip
had been arranged for this exact photo.
I had the Ray Bans on,
the backwards cap,
the tired-road face
of a man trying to look casual
about being very relieved.
She looked perfectly posable.
So I did
what any reasonable staff member
would do: I took the picture.
Sent it.
A few hours later,
the heart hit.
And that was the real arrival.
Not the room key,
the parking lot,
the little map dot…
Your little yes
crossing the dark after me.
That’s when _I_ felt it: made it.
All the way
to the first place
I could miss you from
and still feel found.&lt;/code&gt;&lt;/pre&gt;
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