Distance

When you were alive, you were far away. In another city. We could talk whenever we wanted, and we couldn't get off the phone when we did. It felt like you weren't that far, but you were over there. Not close enough.

You weren't able to drive to see me often, because you were tethered by your failing lungs, mom. And your hidden cancer, dad. Here, our obligations restricted our lives, so the distance persisted. The space was always there.

Then you both left me.

I thought the distance between us would suddenly be infinite, but I was wrong. You are closer now than you ever were. You don't live over there anymore. You have taken full residence in my heart. Now I carry you with me wherever I go. And there's enough space in there for the both of you.