I told him in my letter. Just said it, why not? “You might as well just burn the money. At the rate you spend, burning it might take longer,” I wrote. By hand. I don’t have access to the computer lab. My behavior’s been good, but I haven’t yet received the nod. Not sure I care. Something about writing. Using my hands and gripping the Bic with my bad fingers makes things seem better, almost all right, somehow.
Like yesterday. I used my free time to pen the letter. Easier than saying it to his face.
Last week, when he came to visit, I noticed the new clothes. The dark denim jeans and the bright-purple polo. The emblem on the chest pocket. I noticed the golden thread decorating the jeans’ back pockets. New sneakers, too. High tops. Likely over 100. The photo of the baby, the one taped to my
