I picture all of the times she shouted to me outside of the holding cell: “Son, are you there? I left food for you.” As she left, the policemen always made fun of her: “Son of a bitch. Why don’t you educate your children?” Maybe she was able to keep her composure, but this always made me want to cry. There were twenty-three of us in the cell that was designed to hold eight. As I suffered from the pain in my bones, lack of sleep, suffocation, hunger, and raging fevers, I missed her warmth.

I picture her raising my son when I had to run from our village so I wouldn’t be captured. I’m sure that as you looked at my son, you saw me, believing that I had been born again in him. I worked like an ant for two years, cultivating coffee and trying to live an honorable life. Although I was free, I felt like a caged prisoner. As I slept in the coffee plantations so that the police wouldn’t find me, with branches pricking me, mosquitos biting me, and rain falling over me, I missed her warmth.

I picture her on the five-hour journey, making a huge effort to see me the few times she was able to visit me with my son. Thanks to her, I spent one Christmas on an abandoned coffee farm, playing and setting off fireworks. Just my mom, my son, and me. So happy. I couldn’t go
and visit them because I feared being captured. But I put up with the distance knowing that at least this way, I could see them once in a while in the free world. When we said goodbye, I felt so sad because I didn’t know when I’d see them again. And as I let go of her, I already missed her warmth.

I picture her worried sick, kneeling down in front of her bed, and praying for me when I left to go on foot to the United States, begging God that I might arrive safely and find work. Fifteen days into the trip and the coyote turned me in because he thought I was up to no good. And I was deported to El Salvador. When I saw her, I was handcuffed, and as I stood there, wishing I could hug her, I missed her warmth.

I picture her crying, suffering because of the water-filled blisters that show up all over her skin, and suffering because of her desire to visit my brother and me in jail. She saves her money to come and visit us instead of buying herself medicine. I think about the footprints of pain that I have left in her heart because I haven’t been the son she wished I’d have been. She would like things to go back to how they were when we were young, but it’s too late. All I want is for her to enter the visitation doorway but when she doesn’t show up, I miss her warmth.

-Stomper