On Wednesday,

My small boy’s

Father

Flew into town for the

Boy’s spring break.

The dad and his boy,

They hadn’t seen each other since

July.

It’s our life,

Shared and separate:

One of us,

His father,

Who lives in Finland,

Or me,

Is always living through

Days and weeks and months of

Our son’s absence:

Walking past a

Quiet,

Shadowy

Bedroom,

Toys neatly in their boxes,

Bed smooth with laundered sheets;

Twisting open the blinds to

Let light in,

And then closing them again at the

End of one more day

Ticked off the calendar.

Incredibly,

A season will pass,

Or even two:

A melting or a shedding of leaves,

Moons.

And then:

The airport.

On Wednesday,

I had taken off work early and

Arranged to pick the boy up from school

When we learned the plane would be late.

So we scurried around town a bit,

Holding hands to run across streets and

Jump over puddles,

And arrived at the airport at

10 p.m.

Late for a small boy —

And for me.

Strung out on

Anticipation,

Time-killing errands and

Fluorescent lighting,

We waited,

Watching travelers descend an escalator behind the

Sliding glass doors of the airport’s

Secure zone.

Victor scampering around on feet and hands like a monkey,

His dad,

To be sure,

Striding down the wide, carpeted

Terminal corridors toward us.

Not allowing himself to jog —

After months of disciplined pacing,

You can’t lose your rhythm on the

Last leg of the journey.

And then,

There he was: