A correction officer tells me to wear a longer skirt next time before we walk into the large fluorescent-lit room with colorful murals. I hesitate until we spot him seated by a door, dressed like all the inmates in a khaki shirt and pants, a hand on each knee. A guard releases him and he walks toward me. After an awkward hug, we sit opposite each other, a square table between our legs.
He’s still shaving his head and has grown a brown bushy beard. No longer using alcohol and drugs, he has clear eyes and healthy skin. In this rough environment, I’m grateful he’s over six feet and has a look that says, “Don’t fuck with me.” His facial expressions, the nodding of his head up and down in agreement with himself are habits that stuck.
With care, he eats the vending machine food, we bought, a salad, and a cheese burrito I heated in the microwave. During adolescence, he worried about having food on his face, or a hair out of place. Today he removes each crumb from his mouth using the corner of a paper napkin. My husband, not his father sits beside me inhaling a Kit-Kat. I’ve no appetite after funerals, in hospitals, and now on jail visits.
This forty-year-old with high cheekbones and handsome smile was once a toddler who repeatedly snapped red, blue and yellow Lego’s together followed by, “Look Mommy Jail.” I feared then his play was prescient.
One hour feels like forever. I squirm in the chair when my son tells us, “Time goes fast in here. People don’t age.” On that magical note, I hug him good-by and he whispers, “The COs give everyone a hard time. The one that hassled you about your clothing is a real dick.”
