she stands,
arms as a make-shift basket, holding
an assortment of
items
that she thinks he will like:
candy bars from when he hid
behind
her dress at first meeting with
unknown adults(and sometimes
kids, too);
his favorite juice that he used
to drink gallon after gallon of
until his belly,
big and rotund like he'd swallowed
his
father's
globe, threatened to explode all
over their living room set;
English muffins;
and a bag of those dark, dark
cherries he would gnaw on,
trying to see if he could spit
the seeds into the waste bin from
five
ten
fifteen
feet away.
her lips tug into a quiet,
unnoticeable smile as she
shifts her items around in
her flesh-and-bone carrier,
unaware that he was indeed
on his way
home
to her,
only he wouldn't be cruising
through the arrival's gate at JFK,
but would be shipped to her
in a
non-descript
box, covered by a symbol of his
patriotism,
finally saying,
"Mom, I'm home."
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