Four Hours, Depending

She said don't bother. She said the word

procedure like she'd carried it to the phone,

already smooth. I heard. I heard

the space between what she said. I've known

that road in both directions, and I stayed.

I opened the maps app. Two-forty miles.

Four hours, give or take, for traffic.

I looked at the route—the long flat aisles

of I-90, the interchange, the specific

exit I've taken without thinking for years.

I closed it. Opened it again.

The time had changed by three minutes. Some

wreck or merge between here and then.

I put the phone face-down on the couch, numb

with something I keep calling calculation.

Four hours is not far. Four hours is a weight

I keep picking up and setting back.

She said don't bother. I said okay, great.

I'm still doing the math, the exact

difference between a bother and a son.