Blythe
I crash into my mom like a train.
My ears ring as she throws her arms around me. We collapse to the ground and I shake with sobs as I bury my face in the crook of her neck. She smells so good, like lilac-scented laundry detergent and Vanilla Fields perfume. I inhale as my fingers dig into her clothes, the gravel burying itself in our knees. I cannot believe that she is here, that she is holding me, and that I am holding her. It feels like a trick, like she will dissipate with the lifting fog.
"Blythe, my sweet girl," she chants over and over again. The sound of her voice fades in only as my ears stop ringing. "My sweet, sweet girl."
"Mom," I whimper. "Mom, I miss you."
"I miss you more than anything. I would give my last breath if it meant you could spend it with me at home.
