I recall your acne-ravaged face, the way your neck reddened as the judge called you a dangerous, violent youth. He vowed to make an example. “You got it wrong,” I said. “He’s just my son.”
“It’s bad out there ma,” you said. “Carried a blade, thought he had one.” Did he? Was it snatched, as the friends you followed, street-smart, uncaring ran away?
I visited last week, you’d lost a tooth. “Not safe in here,” you said. I can do nothing, merely watch as you are broken, piece by piece, the candy heart I gave you, crushed and stolen.