Six days it took you to pack.
Six hours to drive to the airport.
Six times three hours of sitting in an airplane seat.
Six years until the next time I see you.
Six times one hundred letters sent.
Six thousand miles from home.
Six hours of crying six nights a week.
Six minus five bullets you took.
Six days to notify the family.
Six days to bring you home.
Six hours to put you in the ground.
Six days old your newborn daughter was.
Six times five years old you were.
Six thousand memories shared.
Six billion stories told.
Six infinities until your memory fades.