Sensory Deprivation 
By Deborah E. Hill 

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. 

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. 

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. 

Deborah E. Hill (c) 1999, 
from Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul 
by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen 
and Heather McNamara.

www.chickensoup.com

[EDITORS' NOTE: 
The following piece was sent to us by a female prisoner. 
We don't know what the crime was.]