Greg doesn’t take long to find
his way back to my question.
On the one hand, he says, you have
a good home now. Mrs. Adams loves you.
You eat good food you don’t have to cook.
You have a friend.
Greg kicks a rock
that’s out of place on our path.
He doesn’t look at me, just stares
at the black driveway we’re crossing
and keeps talking. On the other hand,
she’s your mama.
I don’t know what to do, I say,
and my eyes turn blurry.
Greg stops and puts his hand
on my shoulder. You don’t want to
disappoint either of them, he says.
It’s not a question. He says it like
he knows and understands.
Then he tells me about the time
after his daddy died, when his mama
started dropping things and tripping
and spending whole days in bed on account of
her legs being so numb. His uncle wanted
to take him for a while, until they could
figure things out, and he had to make
a decision like mine.
I want to ask him how he made his choice,
except before I can, he drops
the rose in his hand and races up
the stairs of the porch. The only words
he says are, She’s not here.