By Lorelei Miksch
I hear them screaming. I see their fear
and wonder what has frightened them.
Strangers who seem to know me. Questions I have no
The surroundings so unfamiliar.
I must go home.
They laugh and tell stories about people I do not
I smile—it seems to make them happy.
I have a glimpse of another time, another place. No,
They call me Mom—I do not correct them.
I smile, we embrace, they wave.
It seems to make them happy.
But, I must go home.