A Collection Of Recollections

Chapter 3

Fresh coats of paint – two, maybe three, shades lighter than freshly soured buttermilk – blanket

the concrete walls and cover though never smother our tears. Blood and sweat, too. Toxic scents

confuse nighttime visitors on scavenger hunts for food. Drink, too. Like us, rats also desire, even

deserve, life. Rectangular grids turned journals – mark minutes, days, weeks, years. Square

windows bathed in bars do, as well. Many bare scars. Others stream stories – missed birthdays,

forgotten anniversaries, time between visits and before library-cart rounds. A place we are in,

neither of nor off. Not home. Not housing. Not rehabilitation. Nothing more than four walls and

40 cots times two. Often more. Nothing less than 80 worlds on pause and 100 reasons to cry.