THE LITTLE THINGS

Nightfall descends upon the prison yard, desolate as the Nevada desert, eerie and still, lacking warmth and any sign of life, a luminous half-moon illuminates the black November sky. It’s after 10 o’clock count, I sit down at the desk to do some writing, alone, which is not common in prison—my cellmate in the infirmary undergoing daily radiation treatments for face cancer—for almost three weeks.

It is difficult to write during the day, so many distractions and interruptions: counts, walking to and from meals, and working from 8 to 3 in the canteen. But since my cellmate has been gone, I’ve been using the time to write at night, when everyone else is sleeping. My typewriter has a memory so I can store text without printing it out. It holds approximately ten pages.

Since tonight is Thanksgiving, I’ll start by telling you the things I’m thankful for: the last three weeks of much-needed solitude to reflect, to meditate, and to write, a typewriter to write with, a full stomach from the three hot meals I received today, and a cot to lay in when I tire of writing.

I’m thankful for Medicare and all the health care providers who treated my mother for throat cancer. I’m looking forward to seeing her this weekend. I’m thankful for my brother and sister-in-law, for bringing my mother for a visit.

I’m thankful I had enough stamps to mail out the legal brief I just prepared for the United States Bankruptcy Appellate Panel, so the court can void and discharge the Missouri Incarceration Reimbursement Act judgment entered against me three years ago. The MIRA judgment allows the State of Missouri to take 90% of any money deposited into my inmate account. I’m thankful that I make seventy-five dollars a month working in the prison canteen. The state can’t take any of that. They are prohibited from doing so by statute. Unfortunately, my job only lasts until March.

I am thankful for my agent, Kristin, I could not blog without her assistance. She is an oasis, a tall glass of ice water to a parched fishing-boat captain, and as refreshing as rain during a drought. I do not have access to the internet. Living in prison is like living in the Stone Age, instead of using flint rocks to make fire, prisoners use AA batteries and staples to light their cigarettes when in administrative segregation. I’m thankful I don’t smoke. I just drink copious amounts of freeze-dried coffee, agitating my kidneys until I give birth to an occasional stone. Perhaps this is one vice I should reconsider.

I’m thankful for the occasional letter from my nieces. I’m also thankful for the occasional visit from my sister, Ginger. I enjoy beating my niece Mandy in every game she selects to play. I think she enjoys losing so she can say she let me win.

I’m thankful for Rabbi Shmuel Spritzer at Reaching Out. He always sends heartfelt letters with encouraging stories of triumph over adversity.

And last, but not least, I’m thankful for you sharing a moment with me, as I reflect upon all the little things that make life feel abundant, full, and overflowing, meeting all of life’s necessities one by one.