I was in the waiting room of a hospital. Someone burst through from behind the reception desk, making a loud crashing sound. He was in a blue gown, tied in the back, barefoot he ran out, not seeing me, into the street. I screamed, “That’s my son!”. On a cot, he was sedated. “Mom”, he said and sobbed open mouthed into my neck. Our crying was meteoric, messy. The two guards looked straight ahead. I sat in a chair by his side, leaning towards him, my hand in his. At 4am, I drove home alone. I felt like an egg, cracked, oozing, with no way to gather myself.
Valentine Mizrahi
It took almost 50 years for Valentine Mizrahi to allow herself to write and another ten to get published. She was recently featured in the Style Section of the Sunday New York Times and won first prize for nonfiction at one of her favorite literary journals.
