by Lauren Scharhag
Not a day in mid-May
But late August.
Not a day of tea rooms and flowers
But of body scans and pat-downs
She comes
All the way from Houston
Almost ten hours
She comes
Eighty-three years old
Her walker granted dispensation
To pass through those hollow metal doors
Into the visiting room
Where they will be given an hour.
She manages the trip
Every few months
He’s been here twelve years
Eight more to go.
He’s seen so many men
Come in and go out
Some who’ve kept in touch
Take his mother to lunch.
Whenever she’s in town
They take her shopping,
Show her the sights.
What bonds of brotherhood
These brothers in bonds
Come to know.
In the morning, they will
Take Mother to breakfast
Check her oil and her tires
And see her off.
She and the son of her womb
Both wonder
If she will still be here
When eight years is up.
[More poems by Lauren Scharhag]
[Check out Lauren’s back porch wisdom here]
