It bubbles up.
And pours over.
Sweeps me away.
Kick my feet up.
And float on.
The television stands in the corner, the couch covered in corduroy, extra cushions spread us out, but we're all here again. The Sox on the television, she's curled up next to him with the dog at their feet.
Full from dinner, happy-exhausted from the day, the crux of the couch swaddles now. He comes through the door first and doesn't miss a beat, "Hey Emily! Howareya?" As though I've been here all those days in between. I like to think it's true.
Right before I fall asleep in the pauses between laughter, the crack of the bat, the sideline advice flung at the screen, he walks through the door. I'm bounding off the end of the couch and flinging myself into his arms before he's crossed the room, but he catches me in a bear hug. He knew to catch me mid-air before I launched myself. He knew to catch me before he walked through the door.
We sank into the couch. Home, all of us, even if. Even if. I squeeze her hand and she knows. She's wearing the same toothy grin I am. I wonder if the shine in her eye is really hers or mine. She heads for bed while I fall asleep on the couch. To the cheers of the crowd and their rolling laughter.