Bay

Parked, we sat with the doors of the van open. Ocean wind passed through, bringing the smell of sweet grass. I watched the ocean grasses bend. The social workers stood watching the goodbye between the little boy crying hysterically, and his heroin addicted mother, he didn’t want to leave. I pressed my head against the wheel of the van, hating myself for witnessing it, waiting it out. The little boy waved with tear soaked hand then disappeared, and the mother was back in the van with us as if we were all hanging out together, going to the beach, not transporting her from the methadone clinic to a visitation with her son.

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