Sometimes at night, my mom cries.

Sounds that make my whole body sad.

Mostly I lie in bed and try to go back to sleep.

Other times, I crawl in with her and she says, “Livy,” and I say, “Mommy,” and she curls me up next to her. She smells always like Curve perfume she gets from Walgreens and also like garlic if she’s been cleaning at the Nelsons’ house.

She curls me up tight, right up to her chest and she says things.

She says, “Can we do it? Can we do it just us girls?”

And I say, “We can, Mom. We can.”

Or she says: “You know I love you. I love you so much.”

And I say: “I know.”

Or she says, “We don’t have any milk and I don’t get paid for three more days,” and I say, “We don’t need any,” and she says, “We don’t?” and I say, “We can just eat toast.”

And she always says, “You’re my one, Livy. I could never do this without you.”

And I say . . .

~

I say . . .

~

I say, “Me too.”

And that’s the truth.

Even if she’s been different since he left. Even if things are not how they were. Even if she’s gone all the time. My mom, she’s the best person I know.

I tell her that. I tell her and then I can’t help it, then I start to cry and she holds me tight and we can do it. We can do it just us girls.