Where you gone off to now? she asked. Always going places. Never touching ground. Never landing, she said. Like some bird. Flying south in the winter and north in the spring. Living off of bits and pieces of stale bread thrown out in backyards. She placed the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she lit a cigarette. When was the last time you had a homemade breakfast or a decent cup of coffee? Donuts and black water. That’s what you live off of.

Yeah, her son said from a payphone in Phoenix. 

That bus can’t be comfortable, mom said. All them Mexicans on it . And blacks. Bet you’re the only white person on the thing.

I haven’t taken count.

Don’t get smart with me, boy. I’ll hang this phone up right now, she told him.

Alright. Alright.

Why you calling?

Just wanted to.

You need money?

This will be the last time.

You said that five times ago, she laughed. I can wire you fifty bucks. But, that’s it for now.

Yes, ma’am.

Don’t be so formal. I’ll go to the gas station and send this out to you.

Thanks.

Phoenix?

Yeah.

Spend it wisely.

I love you.

I love you too.