Always Close
Six hundred miles, and she still knows.
Six hundred miles, and she still knows.
Christmas grew by one, and it will never be this small again.
The paper lasted four seconds. He was in all of it.
One recipe, two pairs of hands, twenty years apart.
Last December there were two of you. This December there are three.
For her, because home stopped being a place a while ago.
For the tree at their house, the one nobody is allowed to touch.
For the argument about the star that you let him win every year.
For the dad who says he does not need anything, every single year.
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