I have a photograph. There are two people in it.
One is a man in blue buttondown shirt and light blue jean jacket. The other a silver haired woman. There is a red shirt visible beneath her black zippered sweater, the kind one wears when the world is still cold and dead.
On the Man’s graying head rests a white ball cap. The cap has a patch and I can tell it’s not sports related. No, not something as happy and carefree as that. The patch bears an emblem. I can almost make out a familiar image.
The bill of the cap shrouds the man’s face in shadow. Splinters of midday sunlight penetrate before being swiftly defeated by tinted glasses — the prescription kind, frameless lenses — hiding the man’s eyes. Lines etch his face carving the appearance of a frown, the type time and pained life experience emboss. His lips curve imperceptibly downward at the edges.
I hold the photo close as if this will some how allow me to discern his mind and soul. Nothing.
I turn my attention to the woman. Perhaps she will give me what I seek.
Unlike the man her eyes are plainly visible. Her pained gaze is focused at the photographer, but for all intents and purposes it may as well be directed at me.
The sun has conspired with shadows to hide her face just enough so that I can’t make out the color of her eyes, nor minute features of her face. I am perplexed. I find my self wondering how the shadows even exist for I cannot make out a source.
My eyes trace the grooves on her face. I can’t help but notice how they appear similar to the man’s. To a stranger it becomes obvious that these two people know each other. It is, dare I fall back upon the cliché, written all over their faces.
These are experienced people. They are older than me for sure, and I have walked this earth for 52 years.
In the background spindly branches of a leafless tree poke forlorn from behind a cement wall. I bring the photo close again.
I peer into the woman’s face searching for anything that will heal me from what I am feeling. I find no solace. She is as enigmatic as the man.
Left with no other choice I turn my attention to the wall. My mouth parts and a breath leaves me. I swallow. My dry tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
Framed in between the man and woman is a beige plaque. It is one of many on the wall.
Before I can avert my gaze my mind has automatically read the text:
JOHN MICHAEL MONIHAN
COL USA
IRAQ
1974 2020
I stare at my brother’s grave. It was his birthday recently. I called his twin and wished him a happy birthday. We didn’t speak of John.
Instead we did what we have done ever since his passing; talked, laughed and clung to one another.
My life inside has taught me to live, for life is short.
*Christopher is a writer and journalist whose work has appeared in Prison Journalism Project, Prison Writers, Minutes Before Six, and other publications. He is incarcerated in Ohio.
Hi everyone, I just feel like talking today. A lot has been on my mind, and it has weighed me down to the point where I have felt out of my zone. Sometimes in prison, there is nothing but your own thoughts to ponder, and this isn’t a good thing — not ever.
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