She reached me under cover of darkness - literally - hiding in my room behind closed door and drawn blinds, curled up beneath sheets. I called her that morning, told her I couldn't go on, that something had happened, that I needed her Right Now. The dorm phone rang and I knew it was her reaching for me, buying me a train ticket, meeting me to take me home.
I don't know what happened that year, to my brain and the serotonin levels and the fear that clocked minutes away like eternity. She didn't know, either. But she knew enough to know I needed her, and a good therapist, and probably some meds. She knew enough to know that when I reach out, it's usually a last ditch effort.
She knew enough to know that after you've done it all on your own (which she did), after you've raised a daughter to be independent and bold and unafraid of the world (which she did), when fear collides with reality, she knew enough to wrap her wings around me and let me nest awhile.
14 years later (more than that really: years and years and divorce and adulthood and marriage and kids and moving-half-way-around-the-world later), it's still a mystery to me, that she never gives it a second thought. She answers the call. She gives freely.
Even when I don't want to, she waits for me, when at last I need her.