When I was younger my mom was not around, but my dad was.
My dad was my favorite person.
But when I was 6 years old I had to watch my favorite person die right in front
of my face.
The one who told me I was the best thing that ever happened to him.
The one who loved me the most.
The one who took me to get ice cream even when I was bad in class.
So both of my parents were gone.
Well, that’s what I thought. It wasn’t until I started getting something called, “Collect calls” from some lady called “my mom”
Who I had to look at through a glass window, and I couldn’t hold or touch her.
I remember when I was 9 and my grandmother would hand me the phone—
it was my mom again.
I didn’t understand why she had to get off the phone so fast.
When I turned 14, my mom came home. I felt as if I hadn’t seen her forever.
I had gotten to the point where I called my grandmother, “mom.”
Then my mother disappeared again.
I understood she was back in prison and it hurt me because I heard horrible stories about prison.
But when she came back home, it felt good, natural, as it had been long ago.
