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The Visiting Roomfor my mom childhood memories cement walls surrounded by cold gray enclosed with hard steel uncomfortable plastic chairs around tiny two-foot beige tables I sit there waiting “Donna Willmott, Please report to visiting room” robotic voices still echo from my four-year-old mind ice-cold stares from guards quickly awaken anxiety in the depths of my belly cause me to swallow gulp down my uneasiness disguise it as best I can rush and hug from across the room kisses blown tender arms scoop me up across the same two-foot table which once looked so small now gigantic separates us my desire to hug you/my own mother eliminated by side-ways glances from prison guards weekly trips to FCI Dublin prison time flies too quickly to feel it rush past before I know it I’m torn between desire to stay be with you/my mother and need to get away from this place to go home to a place where complexity disappears sharp pains in my stomach reminders that it will soon be time to say good-bye desperate attempts to avoid the awkward moment of good-bye intensified by harsh prison environment sour vomit rises in my throat tears trickle down pale white cheeks my most hated place becomes my favorite because of you the visiting room where I cry more tears and crack more missing-tooth smiles than anywhere else place of my nightmares wake up in shaky sweats also the place of my dreams the visiting room is where I get to be with you Last updated January 15, 2008 01:22 PM |
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