No Reservations

Like a tug on the reins
of a steady steed,
with no reservations,
about galloping across the plains,
I turned my car south.
California lies
west and southwest
where waits my daughter,
who has had a year to grow,
while I had a year to miss her.

When are you going to be here?
How long are you staying?
Where are you going?
All questions from a mom,
with no reservations,
about changing my plans.

South on Interstate 15,
past and through cities,
deserts, miles and miles
of nothing but cloudless skies.
A gas stop here and there.
Vaguely I remember
exhaustion forcing me
into a Spanish speaking
hotel that understood cash.
No reservations, phone
cable TV or alarm clock.

2000 miles of black ribbon
unrolling before, rolling behind.
I pulled into
my destination,
with no reservations
about being a day early.
Suddenly the child
who was a year older
than when last I saw her
was a baby again.

Tears flowed with
no reservations,
or worries about being childish.
I am daddy.
I am here.
I am hugging her tight.
She is happy.
That is enough.