Sometimes when I close my eyes
I can still hear her voice.

A painful reminder of what once was.

I can still see the drab nursing home
No better than the soft dirt she now lies in.
A jail cell for those who commit no crime.

Are the walls to keep intruders out
Or To keep captives in?

Trapped in another world.
Never to leave this place.

I squeeze my eyes closed.
Try to erase the image and
Remember better times.

When she could still come to the United States.
That woman in the picture—
Is that really her?
And that impish toddler—
Is that really me?

Or just merely a mocking face,
a reflection of a dream, transcribed onto paper?
Is it fake
Or is it real?

But then again, does it really matter?