The Gifts and Curses of Time

Fridays couldn’t come any quicker. The entire week, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and so on are spent anticipating Friday. Typically, Friday evenings are spent at my friend Kaylin’s house, congregating around the TV for Full House reruns; 7:30 marathons couldn’t start any sooner! Amidst Stephanie Tanner’s “how rude” schpeal, the unknown number that has already called three times that day calls for the fourth. I excuse myself during the next commercial break, to deal with the “anonymous caller.” I hold the phone to my chest, allowing it to ring until I can answer it in the bathroom. A familiar voice states, “This is a prepaid call, you will not be charged for this call, this call is from…” I mouthed my father’s name and correctional facility. This is the second time I’ve spoken to my dad this week, on account of his “good conduct” with the other inmates. My excitement for the weekend, the TV marathons, and free time with my friends overshadowed my reality. Putting on a brave face and improvising excuse after excuse was already easy: “Just another guy prank calling me.” Today, my dad only had enough change to call for five minutes. Tomorrow, the next day, and so on, my friends and I will recall the joke for years to come. Today, my dad has five out of his ten years left.

Every other weekend was spent en route to another place, another drive, another hotel room, another plane, and another federal prison. Whether in Lewisburg, Ottisville, Brooklyn, or the many other destinations my father was forced to adapt to, we’d always visit. I’d nestle up in coach with my mother and little brother, Justin, hoping our ears wouldn’t clog as we landed in Ashland, Kentucky. I knew that in this moment, and for the five years left of his sentence, I had to muster up the courage my father used to exhibit for me. “Why are we coming so far to see Daddy?” my brother asked in utter confusion. “It’s just—just another place they moved daddy to for work, Justin, we’ll see him later tomorrow.” I slept with him that night, nestling my brother in my arms as my mom held me, a trinity that that longed to be a foursome.

Sundays couldn’t come any quicker. That Sunday morning evinced the excitement we had felt erupting within us for the past week. My brother and I donned our best clothes, and topped them with a smile that was as genuine as it could get. All the excuses and masks intended to portray happiness would pay off. We stored our belongings in the visitor cubby, and congregated around a four-seat table, anticipating my father’s arrival. I could hear his footsteps, his wrists chafing the cuffs, anticipating their removal so he could embrace us and I could hold him. It was time. He ran to us, his arms found their place under mine, fragile and pure over his. I only had enough time to notice the marks of the cuffs, and the sound of loose change in his pocket, and the smell of black coffee they served the inmates this morning until a guard abruptly ended the exchange, grunting, “No touching, no kissing, no physical contact of any kind... Now leave!” The guards showed us to the exit, their arms pulled under mine, contrasting my father’s grip just minutes before. We cried ceaselessly for a couple hours; could’ve gone until the morning. Today, my dad only saw us for five. Tomorrow, the next day and so on we’ll recall the incident for its cruelty for years to come. Today, my dad has seven out of his ten years left.

I remember when displaying intimacy wasn’t a crime, where touching was a sign of the love we felt, and the love we couldn’t reify with words. Yet, now I seek to touch others, hold a friend, kiss the cheek of my mother, and nestle my brother like I have done many times before, without the regret of a ten-year sentence. I seek to communicate with others about what I’ve seen, and extend a hand if they’ve seen the same. I’m not hardened by my past; instead, it arouses a tenderness toward others, an inclination to the happiness of others, and a desire to do more for others.