Sensory Deprivation

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[Prisoner]

Sensory Deprivation

I want to go dancing and wear a dress that swirls and
floats around me, and laugh.

I want to feel the shimmer of silk as it glides over
my arms and down my body, the joy of fingering its whispery
softness.

I want to sleep in my own bed and luxuriate in the
cool crispness of clean sheets, and rest my head on my own
soft pillow. And go to sleep when I want to, with all the
lights out, and wake up when I'm ready.

I want to stretch out on my couch under my blue-plaid
afghan and listen as my favorite music seeps from the
speakers into my being, watering the parched landscape of
my soul.

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I want to sit on my porch and sip hot coffee from my
stoneware mug, and read the newspaper, and hear the dog
bark at blowing leaves and trespassing squirrels.

I want to answer the phone and call my friends and
family and talk until we catch up on all the words we've
saved for each other, and laugh.

I want to hear the train hoot through Loveland, the
gravel crunch in the driveway, and car doors slam as
friends come to visit. And the tinkle and clink of
silverware on china, the hiss and gurgle of the coffee
maker.

I want to feel my bare feet on the cool whiteness of
my kitchen floor, and the soft blueness of my bedroom
carpet.

I want to see the colors, all of them, every color
ever spun into existence. And white, true white, pristine
and unblemished. And acres of green trees, and miles of
yellow-ribbon highways, and yards of Christmas lights. And
the moon.

I want to smell bacon sizzling, a steak broiling,
Thanksgiving dinner and my father's tomato vines. And
fresh laundry, hot tar on a parking lot. And the ocean.

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But more than all of this, I want to stand in the
doorway of my son's room and watch him sleep. And hear him
get up in the morning and see him come home at night. And
touch his face and comb my fingers through his hair, and
ride in his truck and eat his grilled-cheese sandwiches.

And watch him grow and laugh and play and eat and
drive and live. Mostly, mostly, live. And put my arms
around him and hold him until he laughs and says, "Mom,
that's enough!"

And then be free to do it again.

By Deborah E. Hill (c) 1999

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The following piece was sent to Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable
by a female prisoner. They don't know what the crime was.

From Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul by
Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Heather McNamara.

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