The room smells like Clorox and old sweat.
Shoes echo on the concrete floor,
and the wall clock ticks too loud.
The guard buzzes the door open.
He is smaller than I remember,
thinner, eyes dull, like the years
have scraped him hollow.
I'm not the child he knew,
but I see the shape of his mouth change
when he recognizes my face.
He looks away when he says my name.
I say what I came to say.
My voice shakes, holding back tears.
His eyes are fixed on the floor,
but I see a tremble in his shoulders
as the truth lands, finally,
where it belongs.
He tries to speak
without meeting my eyes.
Words don't come.
He shakes his head,
calls for the guard.
Please forgive me.
Barely a whisper,
swallowed by the closing door.
I return to the car.
He doesn't ask how it went,
just takes my hand, waits.
We sit like that
until I can breathe.
And we drive home
in silence.
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