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POEM
The prodigal

Shirley Bustos

Separation

You wouldn’t have guessed
that any emotion was exchanged
when she walked out the door,
firmly closing it behind her, while stooping
to retrieve the overstuffed suitcases.
It would take close scrutiny
to see moist eyes peering through
parted curtains as they watch
the small grey car with rust
around the right front door
heading north for I-85.
“All we can do is pray,” he reassures.
Anguish soaks into the corner of the apron
raised to her eyes.

Lowering windows
allows the rush of wind
to ease the suffocating feeling
permeating the car’s interior.
An intense, burning heat
threatens to scorch
the soul’s interior.
Flames of uncertainty
are defiantly quenched
by flowing images of adventure’s call
to an unknown place
that has strangely beckoned
for many months.
A quick acceleration
lifts strands of hair
to stretch and whip across
a face devoid of emotion.

Isolation

Three years is a long time
to live in a city
that never made you feel welcome.
Each day’s monotonous existence
moves you to a lower coil
on the downward spiral of defeat.
You don’t have to lose a whole lot
to feel stripped bare as a leafless tree
that bends to a relentless, driving wind.

The pay phone is located
on the far wall of the dimly lit bar.
Hollow eyes search for connection
in the faces of rowdy strangers.
Straining ears, hungry for conversation,
sift through jumbled chatter.
You wish for someone
to call you by name.
The young man
mouthing soundless words
into the phone,
finally hangs up the receiver
and staggers back to his table
for more laughter and drinks.

Fumbling for change,
you don’t want to
face the humiliation;
the “I told you so” that you deserve.
Glancing into the mirror, which hangs
slightly off centre by the phone,
you wonder if they would recognize
the gaunt remains of the one
they used to call daughter.
An unsteady hand
lifts the receiver.
No one but the operator
will hear the catch in your voice
as you whisper,
“I need to make a collect call to. . .”

Return

“She’s coming home”!
He hardly has time to place
the plastic lunch pail
on the kitchen table
before she trips over words
in excited frenzy.
Details are sketchy
but each word rings with hope.
“Any time now” is the
most specific word
that has been uttered
in three years.

It’s unusual for the house
to smell of lemon furniture polish
on Wednesday, and the Saturday smell
of freshly baked bread
adds to further disorientation.
The starched curtains seem a bit limp
from being parted too many times.
The car that finally pulls into the driveway
stops with a convulsive jerk.
There are more rust spots,
and they don’t remember
the muffler being so noisy.

The phrases you rehearsed endlessly,
hoping to ease the anticipated awkwardness,
are suddenly replaced
by spontaneous embracing.
Words don’t make much sense
when everyone talks at once,
but let your tired mind focus
on the melting eyes
that you have missed so profoundly,
and you will hear them say,
“Welcome home”!

Shirley Bustos lives in Valparaiso, IN. She is a music teacher, pastor’s wife, mother and grandmother.

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Last modified October 15, 1999.

© 1999 Mennonite Brethren Herald.
Published by the Canadian Conference of MB Churches.
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