I drive 45 miles north, mostly highway.
Take the exit for your house.
Pass the touchless carwash,
The diner you said isn’t very good,
The church under repair.
Pull into the driveway, meet you in the mud room.
Shoes off, purse hung.
Coffee?
Yes, please.
I’ll be on the blue couch, under the cream blanket Dad gave you
Waiting to see which cats come out to say hi.
The youngest one is the first greeter. She needs attention before you make it through the door.
She needs everyone to remember she is here, she is cute, she is cuddly.
We talk
We talk
We talk
Now it’s time for me to nap while you read.
The cats nap, too.
I leave before it gets too dark
You warn me to look out for wrong way drivers on the highway
And to watch for deer
I drive 45 miles south
Text you from my driveway that I’m home.
45 miles is further from you than I wanted to live
But I don’t need a plane and an overstimulating trip through DIA to see you.
And should another pandemic arise, we won’t go two years without seeing each other again.
There is comfort in knowing that if society collapses
and we can’t drive
because there’s no gas
and we can’t call
because the networks are down
HJ and I could pack up Willow and walk 45 miles to reach you.