Visitors

"I thought I'd never see you again."

I concur. Shrug my shoulders. "Life happens." He's a good kid, and it's good to see him, never again contracted into a year and a half.

It's Friday afternoon, and we're standing there smiling on our accustomed sides of the desk. Ballcap and ripped jeans, hands shoved into pockets, he could easily fit in here. It hasn't been that long. Just long enough for my image of him to crystalize into something that isn't now and never was, exactly. A composite of all those years. I'm glad for the refresher.

"I was shy to come in when all the kids were here," he says, and I think, "How different from your sister." She's here, too, on the phone for the fifth time in four minutes, the center of attention as always, as ever, from all that eyeliner down to her spike heels. She's the diva who nonetheless brought me her brother, the one who insisted that he come.

The three of us gossip and catch up; I am blunt with my advice. I look but see none of his rumored tattoos and piercings, though I realize they could be hidden. I wonder what I'm not seeing. He says more about his drive home than about the Juarez drug war he's witnessed. He's invincible nineteen and he's talking to his teacher; there are limits, but still we're connected.

Soon enough it's time to go, and I gather up my things.

"Okay, Ms. P., we'll let you get back to your life." I laugh at that half-truth and give her my card.

"It was good to see you," he calls. I agree, wholeheartedly. And then I watch them head back out into the world.