I always knew who her favorite child was,
but that was almost okay because I knew who his was, too.
I fought like a lawyer and I never won, I always drove too fast but so did she.
He liked the windows cracked and the little lamp on.
We danced to "Sweetest Thing", his feet wearing through the carpet and mine on top of his, so I grew up convinced I got cheated out of the brown eyes in the lyrics.
He watched his fingers trace the leather more than the television, and her patience wore through too fast for the figures on the screen.
Never brought her roses, always tulips.
I came home far too late once, and she was waiting up. Green eyes, calloused fingers gripping the sheets. He told me "you become the average of the five people you spend the most time with".
I walked away.
She said "good things, bad things, happy things, sad things" and I never grew out of telling her.
My friends call her on Christmas and Mother's Day (still).
He was giddy the day he bought me hiking boots, and I broke them in the next morning.
Because I had so many things to prove to him.
He calls me from China to say goodnight.
She holds my hand from the other side of the mattress, both of us on our knees.
And I am so sorry.
I am so sorry I walked away.
And I love you.
- 9:08 PM
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