receiving a call moments before walking into death row, telling you that your grandfather has died.
the empty mailbox.
having to hug him goodbye and then walk out as they close the heavy grey cell doors, out over the shiny floor, outside into the grey afternoon onto the wide grey cement paths under the grey sky which is trying to produce snow, but only tosses white beads...teasing you, and mocking him.
the empty mailbox.
finding the valentines day card your grandmother bought for your grandfather before he died...that she never got a chance to fill out...not that he would have remembered or known who she was, anyway.
the empty mailbox.
the cold and the blow-up mattress on the living room floor.
the empty mailbox.
being buzzed through the 25 foot barbed wire gates, knowing that you have to go all the way back to california to be able to walk the other way through these fences again.
the empty mailbox.
the home phone that spits static.
the empty mailbox.
the exhaustion that comes out of my forhead and spreads out down across my arms and out of my fingers and keeps me strapped down to the bed.
the empty mailbox.
and there are no drawings being made.
the empty mailbox.
thirteen-hour work days.
the empty mailbox.
and being, finally, alone.
all alone.











free the west memphis three.

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