Jack, by way of mama’s love,
came home yesterday
shy
with hands full of sketches
drawn
while hiding in the mountains.
He waded back
into a life
three years long dead in his mind —
Mama, still dressed in
her wicker chair,
cried Baby’s home
Baby’s home now.
Jack tacked his sketches to
the faded country kitchen walls. . .
Mama’s old,
Mama’s dying.
Jack came home.
StoryGirl 