07 March, 2015

Crossing the Bridge

There was no little nail-biting that the change of cellmates I fretted over, wouldn’t work out favorably. My worry was compounded when the caseworker I approached with a plea to move someone specific in, once my then-cellmate transferred, responded, “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

A bridge was crossed — just not the bridge I wanted. The replacement was on his way out too, having been acquitted at trial. Yet again I had the shadow of the unknown looming. At least smoking wasn’t among the understandably (if still exasperating) restless behaviors this interim cellmate showed. Small mercies. But uncertainty preoccupied me. Would we have enough time to submit the move forms, whenever Mr. Imminent Release’s paperwork was put in order? My insides crawled with anxiety for weeks.

It’s been three months since initial diceyness arose. Against the odds, I secured for myself a good cohabitant for this concrete-box existence — my first choice: a former coworker who’s self-sufficient, churchmouse-quiet, clean, and easygoing, who doesn’t mind me hogging the desk all morning and evening… which I have been doing. Freed from my foreboding, the floodgates of my mind roared open. Sitting, stooped, for hours never felt so good.

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Lacking computer access of any kind, Byron cannot respond to your comments but is relayed them and appreciates your kind remarks.