...from the collection - Standing in the Shadow...
I learned something new today. I found that if I carefully dip water into my hand and, reaching out as far as I can through the bars, pour it on the floor, it becomes a mirror. If I position myself just right I could gaze into this ‘looking-glass' and see the window set high in the wall across from my prison cell. Through that window I can see the sky. It doesn't matter that the pitted cement floor greedily drinks the water after just a few minutes. I would gladly sacrifice the one gallon of water a day they give me, one handful at a time, just to see Outside.
I don't really remember what I did to get here. I barely remember when I arrived. I know there are others here. Sometimes I can hear them whispering, sometimes crying. The same way I cried during those first few weeks; silent sobs and hot tears coursing down my face as I tried to realize my incarceration. I still remember my name although I'm not allowed to use it. I have become a number. Another faceless tragedy. Tracked by the bracelet on my wrist and the stencil on my clothes.
By remote control the lock on my cell disengages, and the door starts to slowly slide open. The Yard. Every week I get one hour to shower and walk the yard. Ten minutes of futility as I try to scrub the stink of prison from my skin, fifty minutes Outside. Quickly changing clothes, stray thoughts run through my mind. Who had worn these clothes before me? And where had they gone? Did they ask the same questions? The thoughts disappear as soon as the guard opens the door to the yard. A bright spot at the end of a long hallway. Is this the journey to the light that they preach about in the Bible: nirvana or heaven? Or have I died and gone to hell, and now the time of reckoning is at hand. Or is this going to be a cruel joke, just as I reach the door they'll slam it shut, and laughing maniacally cast me back into the pit.
There is a desk alongside the door where they sign you out and later back in. Where they check to make sure you understand the rules. They ask me if I want to make a telephone call. To whom? Who would I call? To tell all that I have done, and what I have become. How do I explain all the thoughts and conclusions of these years behind bars. How to tell anyone that in spite of the growth, mentally, inside my mind, I still feel very small. Minuscule man, in a cage, buried under tons of steel and stone, in the very bowels of the earth. Phone call declined. As they usher me out into the yard and close the door behind me, I hunker down. Trying to catch my breath. Eyes squeezed tightly shut. The brightness blinds me and I wait for my eyes to get used to the light.
At first there are blurred images, then as I can open my eyes wider, there are shapes and textures. But no sounds other than the marriage of steel and concrete growing old together. I stumble a bit as I stand and begin walking around the perimeter. Reaching out to steady myself, I notice names carved into the wall: ‘Cincinnati Mike', ‘def dawg', ‘Travis L.', ‘Kid Coltrane'. I find humor in the fact that their great marks upon the world, are nothing more than graffiti on the wall in a prison yard. A short note whistled from above, and something falls almost at my feet. Two thirds of a lit cigarette. I lift my hand in a gesture of thanks to the guard on top of the wall without looking up. The smell of the burning tobacco is strong in the otherwise dead air here in the courtyard. Carefully I take a small puff. Although I am braced for it the smoke burns my eyes and nose, and sets my lungs on fire. A fit of coughing. Another careful drag. Already I can feel the nicotine hit my system. As I lean back against the wall to enjoy the smoke my thoughts drift back to the query about the phone call. Who would I call? How would I explain, in just sixty seconds, all the growing I have done, the understandings I have reached. In the space of eighty heartbeats, legitimize my existence, justify my life up to date. Or would I issue a warning? What would I tell someone to keep them from following this same path to purgatory. How do you tell someone of the beatings and screams that come in the middle of the night. How your only source of conversation comes from the man in the next cell, who scratches and farts, and never had a thought that didn't originate in his pecker or his belly. How you have become sick to death of the smell of unwashed bodies and the stench of fear. What would you say to keep someone out of this place. This Hell colored in grays, and darker grays, and black.
I take the last drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly. I watch as it curls out, up, and away. Following it with my eyes until it disappears into the sky above me. Then I realize, I would have something to say, a message, a warning. Don't do as I have done or they will take away your sky. And the sky is. . . my thoughts stumble as the door opens and the guard calls me back inside, and the sky is. . . the guard calls again, threatening. As I enter the doorway, I glance back for one last look at the sky.
And the sky is so damn blue.