I Am Sorry Mom

This is a story by William Garcia Jr.

She had lain in bed for days, in denial, not eating, rarely talking, and depressed. I am describing my mother’s condition after two detectives knocked on the door and entered the apartment looking for her son, who was accused of murder. I wonder what thoughts and images ran through her mind. Her son, who she always believed would make something of his life, was wanted for a serious crime.I was always in school and during the summer breaks I made sure to get a job. After graduating high school, I wasted no time in finding job that permitted me to move out of my mother’s house and have a place of my own. To my mother, I was a responsible young adult, with no bad habits: a son that would never find himself inside the criminal system or so she thought. It took my mom a number of weeks before she was able to accept that I was incarcerated. She did not come visit me right away. I imagine that had to do with the struggle within herself, dealing with denial and the truth. I still remember her first visit when I was held in the county jail. Her face and her eyes defined the suffering she had endured during the first weeks of my imprisonment I can also remember her words: “William it wasn’t you that committed this crime they are convicting you of. It must be someone else.” At the time, I couldn’t fine the nerve to admit that she was wrong. Every permitted visit in the county jail, she made the effort to be there with me. Every day of my court trial, she sat right behind me with a forced smile to hide from her pain. On sentencing day, no longer able to hide her pain, she burst into tears. That was just the beginning of a long twelve years she endured of not having the freedom to see her son whenever she wanted. She still battles the demons of denial and the fact that her son could have committed such an act. The aggravation of traveling two hours from Hoboken to Trenton, the chaos of entering the prison to sit with me for an hour and a half, and her age have understandably lessened visits over the years. Her fifteen to twenty visits a year have diminished to three or four. After years and years of burdens that I placed on her back. I can see that I’ve scarred her spirit and soul. Twelve years later, my mother is fifty-seven years old. I wonder if she and I will ever experience those special moments of mother and son again: talks at the kitchen table over dinner with the rest of the family, or laughs of joyful holidays together, with nieces and nephews happily running around the house. I can go on writing about the other family members that have struggled with my life behind bars for the last twelve years. But there is nothing like when a son is taken away from a mother because of his ignorant and immature decisions. Do not allow your mother to suffer as I have allowed mine to. Cherish the moments together.