No Place Like Home

The day is cold, cloudy, and a blustery day. It is wet with cold rain, devoid of any sunlight, and this mimics my mood. As I sit staring out of the window of my cell, I can see just past the fence and rolls of Constantia wire, as I gaze upon the sleeping woods that surround the prison. All is see is dismal, dank, dirty brown blemish to the landscape. The rising temperature and shinning sun of days gone by, as of yet, have not been able to coax the colorful, luscious green leaves to make an appearance on this day unfortunately. Both relief and real pain are of equal measure in my thoughts. I fight hard to chase away the painful reality of my circumstances, hoping that the relief of a comforting reminiscent memory may prevail. I use these memories whenever possible to chase away the heartache, loneliness and despair of this reality I find myself daily confronted with. I continue to stare outside as the raindrops pelt the windowpane that is part of my human cage. The cold win whistles through the ancient drafty window, and the sound of a distant jet airplane echoes in the rain soaked atmosphere. Inevitably my thoughts reflect to the curios contemplation of the destination of this magnificent machine? As I continue the struggle to mentally escape, knowing that any thoughts that can be used to remove myself from the reality of these mundane, soul crashing days behind these walls/fences are welcomed. The thoughts of my children, my home, and my freedom of my thoughts and acts are cherished. With a forceful fight of mind, these loving memories rush in. I now see my children; I can hear their laughter and joy, the warmth of a loving embrace as I kneel down to accept their little arms that are tossed around my neck, one after the next. I truly cherish this moment. I am standing in front of my little boy tossing baseballs to him. He swings the bat and makes contact with the objects that are really representation of my undying affection. These are true and real memories, and not just conjured up, fabricated thoughts of times that once were not. I chose as a father must do, to be part of creating these loving memories. As I continue to reminisce, I catch some balls. Yet others fly above my head as if they were newly ignited rockets, at a rate of speed that makes it impossible for me to stop. My son cheers, puffs up his chest, and struts around like a Rooster in anticipation of the next pitched ball. I lovingly offer these balls again and again until my son tires of the game and his thirst for this activity is quenched completely. Afterward, I take him to the rear corner of the yard. Together we till the soil once again. We kneel down in the dark, rich soil breaking apart any remaining clumps of earth in our hands. The smell of the soil is unique and very difficult to describe. There we dig small holes of a perfect diameter and depth in order to accept the tomato, pepper and bean plants. This too has been activity purposefully chosen. It instills an appreciation for what the earth can offer. With these plants, planted in arrow straight rows, and perfectly spaced intervals, it’s time to move on. Now the grass in the front and back yard awaits us. The grass has been rapidly reaching skyward, requiring a much needed manicure. So I gas up my lawn mower, and locate my son’s toy lawn mower as well, and ask him to help me by following behind me cutting any strangler blades of grass that I might miss as I swipe back and forth over the yard. My son dutifully does his part. The sweet smell of newly cut grass permeates the air. And my son and I take the time to appreciate the wonderful aroma. Once we are finished I take my son inside to reward him with a bowl of his favorite ice cream and say, “Well Done Little Man!” It is now my little daughter’s time. And daddy’s little girl sits patiently waiting on the deck of our home. A tea party is about to go down. As I arrive, my daughter welcomes me, and lets me know I have arrived right on time. The table we sit at is a miniature version of the dining room table that by now sits vacant in our home, piled high with the detritus of everyday life that can’t wait. So I struggle to sit within the pint size chair. It is a struggle that, with the proper effort, I know I can win, and I do. I introduce myself to the other guests she has invited to her tea party. I see Winnie the Pooh bear, Barbie and Ken, and I thank my daughter for such an important invitation to what is sure to be a wonderful time, and the party begins. We discuss the latest toys advertised on television, which are very desirable to her and the others that are not. The tea and sugar cookies that are so lovingly offered by my daughter are make-believe, but this matters not. It is however surprising to me how possible it is to taste sugar cookies if I concentrated hard enough. The crunch and the taste of the honey used to sweeten the tea are almost real. After much discussion, the tea party finally ends. We clean up our mess, and move indoors to my little girl’s playroom. In the playroom we find a miniature version of a loving and fully furnished home waiting for us. As I sit on the floor in front of the rooms of the house, my daughter sits beside me. We start the redecoration process, moving tiny beds, chests, and drawers, the refrigerators and other furnishings to more desirable locations chosen by my daughter. I fight to keep focused and remain within this memory, but my concentration is broken as the C.O. yells out loudly, “Count Time”. His voice reverberates and echoes through the concrete and steel as all the cell doors are slammed shut. The counting of each man as if we were caged animal, begins as another jet airplane buzzes by. I listen to its engines as it streaks by, and I am no longer sitting joyfully on the floor of my home playing house with my daughter anymore. Now, it’s cold, stark, unwanted reality of the present that unmercifully returns back to my mind. So I shelf this memory for use at another time, because there is no place like home. The interruption is only one of the unpleasant, painful, unwelcome parts of being incarcerated. These memories and others like them will be revisited time and time again, making a brief mental escape possible, and to let me know I am human.