Prison Gulls

“Three o’clock.” the gruff speaking guard announces. “Visiting time is over!” Hurried goodbyes are spoken. My father and I step aside to let my mother hug her ailing son. It might be the last time she will be able to do so. Her son, my brother can barely hold his arms and hands still long enough to embrace her. His right leg and head shake as well. He has Parkinson’s disease. His face is bloated, his scalp scarred from the severe beatings he received five years ago at a prison in Texas. A prison guard stomps over to my mother and demands the pair separate. “Time is up!” he reminds us again. We are hurried out a heavy door into an area prison officials refer to as “the gate.” Through the tiny glass we watch Rick shuffle away with the guard to be strip searched. A tragic indignity for him to endure, a tragic indignity for my parents to realize their son must be subjected to. “We’re waiting in the gate,” the prison guard conveyed to a coworker on the other end of the walkie-talkie he breathed in to. My mother is inconsolable. She turns her face away from the heard-hearted guard and sobs into the exterior wall inside the 5 foot by 20 foot enclosure we were locked in when we left the visitation room. The wall her face is buried in is stained with feces and urine from seagulls and cranes that make their home on the roof of the penitentiary. My mother is so distraught over having to leave her sick son behind she doesn’t care about the unsanitary conditions. The image reminded the guard of a funny story and he wasted no time in sharing. “Watch what you touch there, lady,” he chuckles. “Prison gulls are the worst. They’re messy and mean. I’ve seen them eat a wounded pidgeon then crap all over that wall. The pidgeon’s wing was broken and a big gull swooped down and started tearing a hole in the pidgeon’s flesh with its beak. Damn pidgeon was still alive. Can you imagine?” The guard was proud of his story. He seemed to be completely oblivious to how much more it made my mother cry. “Even pidgeons know how short a life is inside here,” he added at the end of his tale. I am two people. My heart is divided against itself. I know the Lord wants me to forgive. I want to. I long to. But it seems impossible after seeing all I have? I am overcome with grief and bitterness. I loathe the mother and daughter who falsely accused my brother of heinous crimes. They have no regret. No remorse. Will I regret when the tables are turned on them or will my heart continue to be divided against itself? Should I tell them about the prison gulls or let them learn it on their own?