Born of a mile

I was born of a mile.
My daddy says I was just shy, but Mama corrects him quick.
"She was just right, you mean. Not a moment late or early or in between."
I'm never sure what to think of it all, but it's really nice tucked in the middle of the two of them talking like that. I snuggle under the blanket even though it's near 90 degrees outside and I'm this close to sweating. There's something I like about the drama of it. 
When I tell Mama this, she nods like she knows what I mean and says "of course Bubba, you should."
Mama doesn't call me any sort of normal nickname like honey or sugar or something. It's either Bubba or my given name, which always rolls off her tongue like a Johnny Cash song. And that's why I love Mama. I think it might be why Daddy loves her too. 
I believe it was a Wednesday when we realized it. Mama hadn't felt alright for a few weeks now. We'd stopped thinking it was a plain old cold what felt like ages ago, but no one had a better name for it. 
Well on Wednesday she lost all her color, like it escaped from her and ran off with a sailor into the sunset. 
Mama never lost her color, and I cried into her chest so hard that neither of us could breathe. Nobody could do a thing about it though. Not a damn thing. 
We all knew it, we did. So we got under the blankets and I snuggled up in the middle of them, and Mama said "now don't you forget Bubba, you're just right, not a moment late or early or in between."
And since I was sweating I hardly knew if the salt came from there or the tears. 
"You're just right" she said again. 
And just like that, it was the end.