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I woke early this morning, at 1:30 am, and an enthusiasm ran through me to resume my work. I’m approaching the final pages of chapter four, and it’s exciting for me to bring this section to completion. By 6:00, I wrote through page 180 of the manuscript.
With Friday being a visiting day, I ran the shorter distance of three miles, and followed the slow run with 250 push ups. My running tally now stands at 1,916 miles over the past 217 days.
After showering and dressing, I read news magazines until I heard the guard page me for my visit with Carole. With school being out for summer, the visiting room is much more crowded on Fridays than it feels during the months when school is in session. A new crew of staff members now oversees the visiting process at Taft Camp, and they seem much more vigilant than those who’ve worked during previous months.
The guard upset me when he called me up to the desk, interrupting my visit. He scolded me because I caressed my wife’s arm with my hand. These types of reprimands frustrate me, remind me that I am a prisoner. I don’t like the feeling at all. I don’t touch her in a shameful way. In fact, it is the same way I would touch her if we were sitting in a church service. I simply stroke her cheek, rub her neck, or her arm in a loving manner, the way I would if I were in any other public place.
The rules state that visitors can embrace and kiss only at the beginning and end of each visit. We can hold hands during the visit, but rules do not permit further contact. As a 45-year-old man who loves his wife, I resent them. This separation from family, for me, is the worst part of confinement, and I find it dehumanizing.
As we were leaving our visit, I saw another prisoner crying as he was embracing his children. I felt so sad for him and for the children. The man is in his 40s, and has about two years remaining to serve of a three-year sentence.
This separation from family is difficult. I look forward to release, though three more years may likely pass before I begin my life with Carole.