I Don't Understand

As I sat on the rickety bench, I was wondering, "Why are you on the other side of this dirty glass?"

At that age, at the tender age of five, I was curious. Too many questions in mind. My hands itched for that telephone Mama was using to talk to you. I wanted to know why your hair looked different.

Why is there a 'bracelet', you know, similar to the type patients wear in hospitals, on your wrist?

Why are there so many males like you in this room - talking through the receiver of the phone, gripping them tightly as if they were lifelines, placing their palm on the glass while their wives/mothers/children do the same, but on the other side?

Mama handed me the telephone. Both of you were smiling brightly but I could feel the sadness in the air. Hell, I could still see the sadness in your eyes, brother!

I took the receiver from Mama's hand and said hello to you. The corners of your eyes crinkled and finally, you are smiling genuinely. You asked how was school and whether I had a great time at Suzanne's birthday party. I told you that it was a blast and gave you a toothy smile.

Suddenly, I heard the buzzer being sounded. It sounded a lot like those being sounded in gameshows, where contestants have to press the buzzer and answer the question. "Fastest finger first!" was always the tagline.

I heard other visitors rushing to end their conversation; rushing their goodbyes. I heard concerned family members telling the men on the other side of the glass to take care and eat well. To remember them and write them letters.