When I lived in her womb, I might have understood her insides. I play ignorant now; she feels guilty about the wrong things, holding everything in but me. I pushed out days early to make room--a vain enabler. My late nights are distant attempts at comfort; her insomnia is my blood. My mother will wake for an all-hours walk not unlike midnight feedings. Slick asphalt glows under steel blue streetlights. Fog wrapping around the naked trees will make her think of me. She'll remember how I made her hold still to feel silence. She'll hold still and breathe. The fog is her breath I'm driving through.