Three hundred sixty-five days. I’d gone without being with my mother.
She stood at the top of the stairs waiting—for her only daughter to come home to her.
My tears embraced her as her arms wrapped around me.
Heart over heart.
Finally, I thought, breathe.
I like to hold on to that memory.
Twenty days. I had with my mother that summer. It hadn’t mattered much to me at the time.
The days.
I’d always known there would be more. Until there wasn’t.
I hope one day it brings comfort.
Now. It just burns.
All I can do is remember.

My chest rises and falls in rapid bursts, the oxygen I force inside slicing my lungs like waves shattering against a fractured cliff. Thank you for breathing. Thank you.

Four months. Tears knot in my throat as I struggle to find comfort within these four walls untouched by the tips of fresh acrylics.

Soggy pillow sheets. Wet cheeks. Cracked lips.
I trek through a forest of clothes dirty and clean. They form mountains in the dark corners of the room. There is nowhere for me to go, no comfort to run to and still I move.
And, I thank you for moving. Thank you.

Water sways from the horizon, pushing and pulling at the shore. Seasalt swirls through my snot-filled nostrils. But, my nose begs for the smells of herbs, oil and incense, of expensive perfume, occasionally bought and always worn. It begs so much it bleeds.
And, I thank you for smelling. Thank you.

Salt carves unforeseen paths down my cheeks, crashing against chattering teeth. Metal swirls red from aching gums, crying lips, begging nostrils, and screaming cuticles. I imagine that it’s my mother’s homemade spaghetti I taste, not the blood from my own fingers. I imagine my burning gums are from all the spice I begged she add to every meal, pain we once welcomed with shared laughter.
And, I thank you for tasting. Thank you.

The waves race against one another to reach the shore. They calm as they near the edges of my feet, wrapping my rough skin in a kind embrace like that of kisses from a new mom onto her baby’s feet, unscarred. The rush of moments once lived flow from one ear and out the other. Murmured chatter of old phrases, jokes, and music shared pass through the winds of time, bouncing around the inside of my mind unwillingly.
Still, I thank you for listening. Thank you.

Five days. I left my mother for five days. She hugged me when I left. We’d made plans for the holidays. Five days.

The landscape is blurred by the bubbling in my eyes. The color drains from the skyline as I am forced to welcome the night in. Trees bend at the beckon of the passing breeze. Leaves flutter like that of a butterfly’s wings. The individual black curls that wrap around my face shine in the glowing moon, just like my mother’s once had.
Even more so, I thank you for seeing.

Twenty one years. I lived on the foundation of my mother’s love. Seven months. I waited to see her. Twenty-seven days. I had not known pain.

I know pain.
I know when the salt stings, when the waves roar, the heart cries and the brain burns as unsaid words, unforgotten failures, missed moments—three hundred sixty-five days—fight to escape and there is no mother to call you home, no mother to wake you, no mother to love you, no mother to move you, no mother to know you, no mother to listen to you, no mother to calm you, and no mother to warm you.
I know.
And I thank you.
I thank you.
All I can do is breathe.
All you can do is breathe.
So, I thank you for breathing, through the stabbing in your chest.
For moving, against the pressure of an unrelenting pain.
For tasting, though there are flavors that will never touch the tip of your tongue again.
For smelling, the smoke of fires you stop yourself from sparking.
For listening, when there are no words to heal you.
For seeing, when you don’t recognize the reflecting brown eyes.
For feeling, when it is easier to succumb.
Thank you.
Thank you for staying.
In a life that is at its most impossible.
Thank you for staying.
In a place that you would not be blamed for fleeing.
Thank you for staying.
In this moment.
With all the suffering it brings.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you for loving. Me. Even when the love seems as though it will not go anywhere. It will not change anything. You still do.
Amber.
If I haven’t said it enough.
Thank you for breathing.