The text announces.

Throwing open the front door,
My bare feet dart down
the slate front walk.

unfolding themselves
from the sturdy Subaru
are my tall, smiling son
and his lovely girl.

I come up short —
6 feet away.
Hands dive into my pockets,
an unfamiliar awkwardness
bridges the space between us.

How to navigate social distance
when what we remember is touch:
hands held tight,
bandaged knees,
And family embraces?

Questions tumble out,
groceries exchange hands
and just like that —
they reenter the bubble
of the waiting car.

How to explain
the pang of longing
when family stands so near?
six feet
feels like miles.

One thought on “Distance

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