The night your mother got home from the hospital, we ordered Chinese take away and ate dinner inside my rust coloured truck. I fumbled awkwardly with my chopsticks while she laughed at my skill-less fingers. I tried ignoring the fresh scars on her wrists.

The night your mother got home from the hospital, I parked outside of the local little-league baseball field, grabbed a navy blue plaid blanket, and laid it under the stars for us. She curled into me, and my one arm automatically wrapped around her frail shoulders. My large hand circled hers, holding her open palm against my beating heart.

It was the best night of my life.

The night your mother got home from the hospital, she kissed me so hard that it ripped our clothes and intertwined our limbs so hard that we practically became one. It was strange, holding her like I loved her and actually meaning it. There was no heartache behind it. There was no hunger, no need, no ache to become whole. It was like our completed forms melded together to make something better, more alive then we were when we were alone.

The night your mother got home from the hospital, our hands folded together, our scars lining up perfectly on two separate wrists. It was the most I had felt complete in a long time.

The night your mother got home from the hospital, my head rested against her belly, the way it would each night for the next nine months to come.