My wife’s gone until Monday and my kids

left my roof long ago, so I twiddle my thumbs


and count the ways a husband and dad can

entertain himself for the weekend and rest


of his life. In the video I watched on social

media, a man couldn’t walk on his own for


six months because of height-lengthening

surgery, but I wonder if he experiences


deeper amounts of loneliness since his new

body now possesses more room for void.


I’m now the old guy who sits at the coffee

shop counter opposing a younger generation


of MacBook users, but I’m technologically

literate enough to understand my place in


this new world of empty and nesting. I remained

home because I told her I wouldn’t appreciate


the Grand Canyon since it’s just a hole in the

earth but neglected to tell her I’d be more


interested in how the ground fills itself back

up. I type Ways to be Patient Before the Blessing


in the search bar and picture the bedridden

man, counting down the days in which the


transition allows him to sprint with strides

so long he’s able to leap over pits that


looked like setbacks and tourist traps. I finish

my drink and massage my hands, an act

that can be construed as pleading or praying.