I’ve already lost two whole days
saying goodbyes and getting here,

but I won’t let our move stop me
from training, which means

it’s back to pumping iron, followed by a jog
to the nearest store for a dozen eggs,

for the making of two soft hands,
which started with me and Dad

in the backyard my eighth-grade year,
after I told him football was everything.

Now, it’s just me standing
at the edge of the driveway

tossing those smooth white shells
higher and higher into the air,

like bones of some delicate thing
that’s not quite here yet.

And it’s up to me to keep them from shattering,
like babies falling from the sky.

That’s what Dad had told me to imagine.
At first, I had thought of Laney,

had tried too hard, my hands stiff like wood.
But you just need to put your fingers out

all loose and like they’re not connected the way we know.
Like there are nets between them,

webs that nothing can fall through.
Once you trust them to do their job they do.

Now, I can throw those eggs up forty feet at least,
and watch them fall back into my hands,

like a part of me that keeps returning
even after I let it go.