In Amsterdam in transit you have to pass security a second time  
(You do not belong here
     you do not belong)
Short of precious minutes I had the urgent answer to his question ready
‘My mother is in hospital’
He asked (have they been trained?)
Is she ok?

Time notwithstanding, keen not to let this opportunity slip by
of putting border policing in its rightful place
next to human suffering
I answered No.

She’s dying.

It worked.
He shifted in his seat and looked uncomfortable, a bit ashamed
The ground I’d occupied and thought was safe sloped suddenly away
(Don’t feel it.
     Do not let him in.)
Hairline cracks appearing everywhere I said
‘But no one lives forever, right?’

Uncertainty.
Dark hesitancy in his eyes.
The thought of what to lose a mother might
perhaps be like.
Not good.

I glimpsed then the significance of mother to a man.

And then I ran.