No one will ever get me quite like she does...

   This morning Dylan and I took my mommy to the airport so she could fly back home. We all got together at my grandparents' house in Tennessee, and she came back to Kansas City to see my little house and hang out for a couple of days.
   She was supposed to be on vacation, but instead she cleaned the entire apartment (granted, it's not that big) so thoroughly I was a little embarrassed I hadn't cleaned it like that myself. We are talking, wiping down the ceiling fan and light fixtures and pouring Drano down the tub. She cooked meals for us; baked cookies; bought us groceries; filled the gas tank in the car; and tried to buy us a microwave but purchased a nice bed comforter from Bed, Bath and Beyond instead.
   When I was a kid, we did nearly everything together. We enjoyed shopping and baking and watching the Food Network together; talking about the men in our lives, cussing out backstabbing friends to each other, encouraging each other that we are much more beautiful than we think. We operate on pretty much the same wavelength. We do things at the same speed. We think the same way. We're both relatively quiet. We pick up on the same nonverbal cues. I share similarities like this with other friends, but no one else is on the same level as my mom.
   The last time I saw her was Christmas 2010, and I don't know when I'll see her again. Leaving her at the airport this morning was harder than I had anticipated, and I felt very alone as I walked away.
  When she got back to Nevada she texted me to say, "Because of our shared DNA it's impossible to find a friend to fill your shoes. I'll make do with what's here, but it isn't the same."
  Goodbyes suck.
  I hate them more than ANYTHING in this world, and that is not an overstatement.