In the glow of brief days, father and son weave a world of shared laughter; each moment is a treasure, a burst of joy that echoes in my heart. His smile, a beacon of innocence and wonder, guides our precious time, a fleeting paradise where I am whole, fully alive in the art of fatherhood.

Then comes the departure, a routine of wrenching goodbyes; each farewell is a heavy curtain falling on the stage of our togetherness. The house, now quiet, holds the ghost of his giggles; silent rooms speak of absence, a quiet so deep, it's a cavern where memories of our laughter once lived.

Days stretch into a routine, each task a diversion from the void; life moves in shadows of what is and bright memories of what was. I wear my composure like a well-fitted suit, armored against the swell of missing, yet beneath the surface, a father's love murmurs, restless, counting days.

But hope is a resilient song, playing in the background of daily life; anticipation builds bridges from one visit to the next. In the quiet lull, I gather stories, collect laughter, and hoard hugs, for soon, the cycle renews, and I will once again embrace my world, my son.