It’s easiest when you’re six hours ahead of them. That way, the times of day that remind you of a person are not concurrently occurring. They are instead six hours behind you. You do not have the luxury of staring out the window at ten in the morning and sighing, knowing that thousands of miles away your father is reading the paper on a maroon leather couch, the lamp at his elbow lit despite the sunlight coming through the window through the orchard. For despite the way your sun looks right now, like that sun, your father is thousands of miles away but relatively nowhere near the couch. He and the contented dog on his lap are asleep in bed, several hours from dawn, thousands of miles from you. He is asleep: the separation is, at that moment, only yours to contend with.
You sigh, and scrub the table.
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