Behind Barbed Wire
I stood in line with all the others, waiting for my turn to go inside the building. Reaching into the pocket of my jeans, I fingered the brass disc with the number 43 on it. I was visitor number forty-three that morning. A young woman stood in front of me, holding a sniffling toddler on her hip while she juggled a clear bag filled with diapers and baby food with her other hand. Another son clung to her leg, crying and begging to be held. With a sigh, the mom put the toddler down and picked up the crying child. In an instant, the other one began to cry.
My eyes drifted to the barbed-wire fence that surrounded the perimeter of the corrections facility. This wasn't the first time I had gone inside a prison. Years ago, I provided advocacy and counseling services to a deaf woman who was convicted of murdering her baby. Once a month, I would go through the usual pat downs and security procedures at the women's prison and settle in for a two-hour session.
This time, the visit was personal. I was heading inside to visit a friend that I hadn't seen in twenty five years. Ron and I were friends in high school. We met on the swimming team and swam endless laps after school. In the hallways, we passed each other notes that we wrote instead of paying attention in our classes. The notes turned into letters when Ron joined the Navy and went off to sea. He shared stories of his travels and sent post cards from various stops around the world.
As the years progressed, we lost touch. I forged a new path with my husband and kids and dove into a deaf life with a new community of friends. American Sign Language became a part of my life and my circle of deaf and hard of hearing friends grew. I didn't forget Ronnie-- there was a little part of me that missed the letters and friendship. He was the friend that always offered encouragement and pushed me to set goals and achieve them. I kept a mug that he gave me in high school and moved it from place to place.
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