Son

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.

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