Imprisonment

For thirty-five years, I volunteered my time as a writing teacher in prisons. I was aware of my privilege, being able to walk in through the steel sally-door that clanked shut behind me, be examined and frisked, go to the classroom, and leave by those same clanking doors. Each time I visited, I made my escape back into the free world, and no one chased me down to lock me up again. Not so the people inside. They were glad to see me, glad to have some escape from the boredom, the repetitive insults, the humiliations of life behind walls, behind bars, guarded by armed officers. But I know they sometimes envied me the ease of my exit.

Now I sit with a different kind of imprisonment. Imprisoned in a broken body, locked into splints and plaster, wrapped and strapped, there is no escape. She serves her time, and she’s not even sure about the length of her sentence. No chance of parole. No one knows. Every body heals differently.

I type these words with two hands. That privilege.