To Precise Measurements

 As the crow flies, the distance from here to Dallas, the city I grew up in, is easily measured: 1, 019 miles. 

If I get on a plane, I have to add the 38 miles in the car to the Cleveland Airport and account for the layover in Chicago. Add 131 miles.

If I drive from the airport to the house I grew up in, I add another 3 miles.

If I get out the car and knock on the door, I add the the 62 feet up the drive to the front door.

If I turn around and run my hand over the brick wall we used to climb, I add 3 feet.

If I touch the highest spot I could reach as a kid and trace the edges of the brick, I add 4 inches.

If I remember being 7, the fear and joy of being even a few feet off the ground, looking through the spaces between the brick, I add 2 inches.

If I remember the sound of the bolt on the front door as it was unlocking, the heavy clunk of old mechanics, I add 4 centimeters.

When I remember stepping through the doorway, when I remember the light in the living room, when I remember the long hall that went back to my parents’ room, when I think of the years I’ve spent leaving and returning, leaving and returning, and leaving...I divide.