by Shayon Sledge
Looking at my mom through the glass, my first tear falls. I can’t tell if it’s the pain I see etched on her face, or the tears that have become a familiar factor between us, but she seems to have aged another 10 years since the last time I saw her. Damn, I thought, shaking my head, it’s only been a month, yet it makes sense. Moreover, knowing I’m the cause of it sends a chill to my spine so cold, my whole being feels like it cracked in half. I can’t help it, the tears fall freely now.
They say, “You never know what you got until it’s gone.” How many times had I heard this saying and placed my simple interpretation upon it without a second thought? I figured, no, I knew it didn’t apply to me. After all, I reasoned, I appreciated my mother, my 
children, my kids’ father … I loved my family. So why does the hard truth say different? If my truth were true, how did I end up on the opposite side of everything I believed in? Had the system failed me? Better yet, had I failed the system? Instead of living out my passion and making a difference as a social worker … the officer brought me back from my thoughts.
Through the overhead intercom he says, “Ma’am, visiting hours are over. Hang up the phone and be ready to exit.” Damn, how quickly an hour goes once you know how to value each minute.
On opposite sides yet still facing each other, my mom and I rise at the same time. Though we both crave—desperately need—just one more minute with each other, but the consequences wouldn’t be worth it. If the deputy on duty is in a bad mood, I’ll get cursed out in hopes of sending my visitor a message of who’s in charge. Furthermore, my room may get tossed to ensure I’m reminded of who’s in charge. I hear the doorknob of this small enclosure click; it’s my signal that it’s time to exit. Making my way toward the door, I look at my mom one more time before exiting the room. The look in her eyes breaks my heart again. Right before our visit was over, I told her, “Please, don’t be sad. Please … stop … hurting.” I can’t help but wonder if she’ll ever be happy again, if that look and that pain will ever leave her being. I could live with destroying my life, but I didn’t stop there. In destroying my life, I destroyed her life, and the lives of my kids. In one night, I took a daughter from her mother, a mother from her daughter, and children from their family. I ruined, killed, three generations.
My reality is a hard pill to swallow—18-years old in jail, facing life for murder in the first degree. Had the system failed me, or had I failed the system … ?
Republished from “Perspectives from the Cell Block: An Anthology of Prisoner Writings” – edited by Joan Parkin in collaboration with incarcerated people from Mule Creek State Prison.
