"See?" I whisper, I hold her hands to the cool grass.
"See? We made it out, we did it." I look at her, this
little me, her red-rimmed eyes and rubbed-raw
wrist and we find each other's faces, press our
palms into our cheeks, shiver at the touch,
and part our lips so that we say it together.
"Thank you."
She means thank you for caring, for
taking her with me and remembering
her softly, for treating her gently.
I mean thank you for caring, for
staying alive, for getting better,
for finding a way through the fog.
We lapse into silence, indentations
on our knees from the grass, our
faces still cupped, and part our lips
so that we say it together.
"I love you."
