Mother’s Day

by Mark C. Wallfisch

“Oh, Ma, I’m so glad to see ya,” Buster said to his mother, Agnes.

“And on Mother’s Day, too, Buster.  Prison’s an awful place, especially when there wan’n all that much wrong wit . . .”

“Don’t re-live that, Ma, not again.  Let’s make it a happy Mother’s Day, as happy as we can, anyway.”

“OK.  You’re right.  So, whatcha been doin’, Buster?”

“Got a hospital job – orderly.  Ain’t pretty, pays just a little, but keeps me busy and outta trouble.”

“Good, son, this family don’t need no more trouble.”

“How ‘bout you, Ma, whatcha doin’?”

“Didn’t I tell ya?  I’m takin’ an art class.  Got a great teacher.  I’m workin’ wit acrylics, just startin’ to get a real feel for it.”

“That’s great, Ma.  Got anything you can show me?”

“Not yet, Buster, not ready yet.  When I do, they’ll post somethin’ for you to see.”

“Great, Ma.  And maybe next time . . .”

“Time’s up!  Mother’s Day’s over,” shouted a correctional officer.  “Back to your cellblock, Agnes. Your son’s gotta leave now.”

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