This is the distillate.

I’m sorry—
    for the timing,
    for the tone,

    for letting my hurt speak louder than your day.

I’m sorry I turned “I’m here” into a weight to carry,
                       made presence feel like proof,
                      mistook your quiet for goodbye,

          and asked your grief to make room for mine.

I’m sorry for the airport-bench words,
    for pressing send when I should’ve pressed pause,

    for adding weather to a holiday already under clouds.

You lost your grandmother.

I should have brought food,
                      rest,
                     water,
             not questions,
  not the echo of my pride.

What I will do now:
     keep no score,
     breathe before I answer,
     ask what you need and match it,

     hold without hands
          when hands aren’t what helps,

     let time be the treatment
         and not crowd you for a cure,

     show up soft—
                  walk Coal,
                  run errands,
                  warm a chair,
                  leave early
                        if that’s the kindness,
                  stay quiet
                       if that’s the kindness too.

You have changed me—permanently.

That is not leverage… it’s gratitude.

It means I’ll learn to love you in the way that eases,
                             not the way that insists.

I can’t unspoil a day.

I can make the next ones lighter:
  one gentle hour,
  one small yes at a time,
  one promise kept with both hands open.

Take the time you need.

I’ll keep that porch light on in my chest,
                       the door unlatched,
                      the room made ready…

   I will not ask anything of your sorrow
   except permission to set the tea down
                            and *be* here.

I’m sorry.
No excuses.

I love you, Mari—
            without demand,
            without the but.