My Inescapable Past

The work week concluded as I strolled down the hallway ramp, stopping to say “hi” to the same 30-second friends, continuing past cold concrete walls to my living unit. Thirty hours closer to completing a college computer course, proving what I already know, and a dozen hours helping adult men transition from counting on their fingers to solving quadratic equations to earn their GED. This routine became my new normal a few months back. I get to leave the cacophonous 250-man gymnasium of parking spot-sized rooms. Here, I find direction, logic and future. The staff here don’t have badges or handcuffs. They aren’t wearing all blue. Jeans and blouses replace combat boots and mirrored sunglasses. I am Fredericks here, not offender. I have found daily refuge. 

My 300-foot commute remains indoors. No trees, no sun, nor wind, rain, snow, or humidity. Just a double yellow line and a cop to keep traffic flowing. A left turn into Unit 7 merges in the line for mail call. My highlighted name on the list on the wall means somebody loves me today.

Ten minutes later, through a 4 x 15-inch slot in the wall, three pieces of mail pop out. 1) A note I sent to medical three weeks ago has been answered. 2) My pen pal sent her weekly letter. 3) A letter from I.A. with the name Christian on it. I have no clue what I.A. means but one of the people I hurt to earn my spot here is named Christian. My day, just like hers, those years ago, just collapsed into an emotional disaster. What message took three years to say?