Letters from Home

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“I wish, I wish my baby was born,

And sitting on its Papa’s knee.

And me poor girl, were dead and gone,

And the green grass growing o’er my feet.

I ain’t ahead, nor never will be,

Till the sweet apple grows,

On a sour apple tree.



But still I hope, the time will come

When you and I shall be as one.



I wish, I wish my love had died,

And sent his soul to wander free.

Then we might meet where ravens fly,

Let our poor bodies rest in peace.



Thee owl, thee owl is a lonely bird,

It chills my heart with dread and terror.

That someone’s blood, there on his wing.

That someone’s blood, there on his feather…”

(Traditional folk song, author unknown)

Dear Sara,

I write to you because it’s the only thing that passes the time, and keeps my mind in check. The air here is stale tasting and as heavy as the walls. The walls themselves are painted with countless layers of colorless lead paint that camouflage the crumbling concrete block. They are cold and unforgiving. Sometimes rays of sun light find their way to my tiny window and shimmer upon my bars, reminding me of the moon light reflecting off the ripples of the lake at home. Home… How I snicker when I think of such a false statement, stretched over a four letter syllable. Where should such an empty word register upon an ever empty place? An ever empty mind. I hear a constant dripping somewhere in the distance. The sound is like the ticking of a clock, endlessly counting down the seconds of my life.

I’ve been reading a lot since I’ve been here. Trying to pass the endless time. I engulf fully into the story and try to lose myself in other places and times, anything to forget that I’m in this place. A place that is filled to capacity, yet feels as empty as my soul. Often I wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat to the sound of a pounding drum and the feeling of drowning. It takes me a few panicked moments to realize where I am and the drum is merely the beating of my own heart. I fear I can’t handle it much longer. The only thing that keeps me going is thinking of when we can be together again. Of when I am free of this place… when we can be at home… by the lake.

I remember my first night here, thrown into an alien environment of cold concrete and steel. The loud crash of the heavy door as it sealed my fate. I spent the night sitting on my small cot in disbelief of the circumstances I found myself in. I struggled to breathe the stale air and broke into a cold sweat as the lights fell dark at nine o’clock. The night seemed endless as my mind raced endlessly. I was beyond panic and felt the cold walls closing in as they watched me. In the darkness I pictured them laughing at me as I was now their new pet. I remember wondering about the last soul to call these walls home. Who he was and if he was innocent man like I. Did he feel the same way his first night? I started to weep soon after my cell fell dark, and found myself still weeping as the florescent lights flickered back to life. Soon after a tray of cold toast and rubbery eggs were slid through the small slot in my door.

I can’t believe that was eighteen years ago, almost half my life. I came in here a young man with hope still left in the justice system. It didn’t take long for all that to dissolve into the nothing I have become. I spend ninety-six percent of my time in this cell in the north end of the segregation unit. Ten feet long and six feet wide. I can’t believe it is actually that large. I think it has shrunk over the years along with my soul. I have forgotten many things since I’ve been here at Penco Penitentiary, I miss even more. Things that many take for granted every day. Things that should never be taken away from anyone, guilty or not. Like the feel of the sun upon one’s skin on those hot summer days. Days that I would usually find a shady spot to hide beneath, or stay indoors with the cool comfort of man-made arctic air. If I was given the chance I would never shelter myself from those warm rays. You would have to drag my blistered and sun burnt body kicking and screaming away. I can’t believe it has almost been two decades since I have seen natural light. It would no doubt blind my eyes as my sight has diminished from never seeing anything more than a few yards away. I forget the way rain drops feel on my face, the smell of liquid in the air. I think of those days where I would run for cover from those cascading drops from the heavens. Never thinking I would be praying for such a thing now. I could watch puddles gather for hours; the tranquil rhythmic sound of countless drops as they fall upon our home and follow the flow of gravity. I wish I could run through walls of rain naked as the day I was born.

I remember hating winter, cursing the snow and the cold. I would give anything to hear the sound of crushing snow under my feet. To see it cover all that it falls upon and dampen the vibration of sound. Some nights my ears would hum from the sound of silence that only winter can bring. It would last just a moment before being broken by the sound of a car in the distance or some other humanly disturbance. To touch the cold white dust once more would bring me such joy that I have not known for decades. To tilt my head back and let the flakes fall upon my tongue would taste like the finest of champagnes.

I wish I could see the leaves change colour with the coming of the fall. The greens transform into bright reds and yellows. There are many colours my eyes no longer get to see. Behind these bars there is only the colour grey, and one season, the season of emptiness. I wish I could see the setting of the sun, and the stars start to shine through the twilight. One by one as their light punches holes through the dark canvass. I remember spending hours lying under the great perforated blackness gazing up at the full sky, with a full mind.

Time passes at a snail’s pace here and gives you every opportunity to think. I have come to learn that thinking is what drives most men here mad and try to avoid it whenever possible. I fill my time by reading about places I will never go and things I will never see. This works to a limited success. I write to you constantly because you are what fills my mind every waking hour. I see your face every time I close my eyes and long for the day when we can be together again. I dream of you most every night after the nightmares end. I dream of touching you, holding you, kissing you. It has been so long since I felt compassion from another human being. The only human contact I receive is from the guards as they shackle my ankles and escort me to the exercise room. I walk aimlessly in circles for the hour carrying on conversations with myself. I have forgotten what it is to be human, but have learned what it is to be much less.

I have heard that my time in this place is now coming to an end and I am elated. For eighteen long suffocating years I have waited for this news to come each day along with my rubbery eggs. Eighteen long years without you has felt like more than an eternity. I feel I have been more than terribly punished for actions that I did not commit. Living without you has been the worst punishment that has been bestowed upon me. But knowing we will be together soon is more torturous as minutes slow to eons. My cell that has become my universes now feels larger and the air tastes sweeter. For a moment I actually felt panicked at the thought of leaving this place. I suppose it has become my cocoon of pain, and I am weary of morphing into a butterfly.

This will be my last writing to you, as this is my last day here. They will be coming to get me soon and I am more nervous now than when I arrived. They have beaten me down for eighteen years and stolen all that makes me human. But they could never take you from me. I can’t wait to see you, to speak with you, to be with you.

I ordered your favourite for my last meal. It was nowhere near as good as you used to make, but it was nice to have something different for a change. I hear the guards now; they are at my door ready to walk me down my last mile. The spectators have gathered and my needle lays waiting. Soon we will be together again, watching the moonlight reflecting off the ripples of the lake at home…