Turning the bottom corner of our staircase, I saw my mother sitting on the edge of the couch watching television. She propped up her head with her arm, and didn't seem particularly interested in the television show. She looked tired, but peaceful. Her left hand adjusted the knit hat she made for herself when the chemotherapy took effect. Her eyes used to be brighter. She slowly raised her gaze from the television, and saw me.

I went to her, pretending to be casual. We sat in silence for a few moments in front of the television, not watching but staring lifelessly. I turned to look at her face, and she smiled at me. How thin she's grown. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek; she put her arms around me. I nestled close to her like I did as a child. And I cried. I clung to my mother and cried. I mourned for that which I'll never get back -- time, blissful hope, the sweetness of innocence. I cried for the transient nature of this world and the people in it. I cried for the loneliness and meaninglessness of humanity. I cried for the need to be understood. I cried for all that I knew, and all that I didn't know. And she stroked my hair and said, "I know".

That night, I became my mother's daughter again.