Even thought Grandma warned me she was going to wake me early the next morning, I still wanted to be prepared. Disgruntled and slightly irritated, I trudged to the bathroom to get ready for the two and a half hour trip to Lorton. My grandfather, known as “Monk” to everyone on the streets, was serving time there. I never knew how long he had before he was released. Every year he told me, “I'm coming home next month, baby.” And every month, I'd wait. But he never left that place. I was seven at the time.
It had been two years since my last encounter with him, so I was sort of nervous. “Young girl, you always takin' your time. Are you ready?” my grandmother joked from the bottom of the steps. “Yes, Ma,” I responded. No less than ten minutes later we were piling into a white van which was a carpool and driving through the hot streets uptown.
Normally, I would have fallen asleep but there were too many people I didn't know sitting around me. There was a woman that seemed panic stricken. Another who wouldn't say a word. Two hours later we passed through heavy security gates draped in barbed wire and headed to the visitation room.
Loud shouting, showers running, punching bags and inmates flooded the room. I didn't say a word for the 30 minutes I sat waiting, which is rare. I'm quite talkative. Then they called his name-well, numbers- and he came out.
Grandfather was a strong, tall man with broad shoulders. Six foot, six inches and all muscle. He walked as if he was the man, taking his time through with big steps. He sat in front of me.
For some reason I became afraid. He stared right through me. Everything I thought of felt, it seemed like he knew. I knew he would never hurt me, but I'm sure not other inmate could stare him down.
“Wow, you're getting big,” he said to me. “How old are you now, girl?”
“Seven,” I said nervously.
We talked for a short minute but I became nervous. I found an excuse to run around and play. I couldn't take his stare. But I loved him. Even thought he had been locked down since my mother was a child, he knew everything about me.
Years later, I started playing bass guitar. Little did I know, Grandaddy plays too. He sent me a picture of him with his four-string bass. Ever since, we have been writing each other. I don't know when he's coming home, but it feels like he's next to me.
-Cynthia J., ARCH Training Center |
