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Wish you were here. Wish you were here.

He lets the postcard mantra swirl around the crevices of his brain while the prison chaplain quotes Scriptures to save him. It's too late. He'll sit in their execution chair, feel the wet sponge top his baldness, then the clunk of the steel lock him as tightly as his arms and legs.

"He's a good boy. Don't take him away from me, Judge."

How many times had he heard her try to save him? Lie for him? Hide him from the police? His mother, his protector.

Now with a final meal churning in his belly, he thinks of her on her deathbed, ravaged by the Big C and too weak to hold onto all the little co's like "can't let you blame my Thomas," "classroom troublemaker? Not my son!"

Where were you way back then, Mom, when I needed a kick in the ass? Why didn't you straighten me out, make me pay in those old wild days?

Now let them all wonder behind that mirror what his last words mean. Wish you were here. Wish you were here.

Story by:

Salvatore Buttaci

15 November 2012