Mom

She's gone. 

She's left.

She says she'll be back later. 

Even though, I roll my eyes and tiredly insist that there's nothing to be happy about at seven in the morning on a Saturday, I want to believe that I'll see her smile so early in the morning. 

Even though, I brush it off like it's no big deal, I want to believe that I'll hear her voice tell me she loves me within the next twenty-four hours. 

Even though, I don't like being trapped between someone's arms, I want to believe that I'll feel her skin touch mine when she gives me a hug. 

I want to believe in all these, but I know better.

I know what she meant by "later."

I know I will not feel her touch when she forces me to give her a hug.

I know I will not hear her desperate voice tell me she loves me, and her awkward pregnant pause while waiting for my response.

I know I will not wake up and walk out to the kitchen to see her cooking with a stupidly happy smile on her face. 

I want to believe that all these "will nots" are just temporary- like all the times before- but something in my gut says they're permanent. 

Something about the way her smile was just slightly fearful-

Something about the way her voice shook as she said goodbye-

Something about the way her hug was slightly tighter and more prolonged-

Something about the way my mom walked out the door just screamed:

This. This right here, is the last time we'll breathe the same air.