This week I’m sharing a few vignettes from an earlier post. I have a feeling many of my newer readers haven’t read it yet (it’s a long one). MFT’s plan to carry the torch for me this week have fallen through, but the blog must go on!

It was June 19 at 8:15 in the morning. After a harrowing gauntlet of inspection by two guards, a walk through the metal detector, and passing through the double iron gates topped with coils of barbed wire, I was before I was deemed safe to enter.

Then came the quarter-mile walk in the desolate Central Valley heat to get to the visiting room.

I sat on a slick, padded chair with metal legs at a tiny round table, my feet tapping. Several other men and women waited for their loved ones at their tiny tables, all of us under the watchful gaze of two guards. I kept glancing at the clock, watching the minutes tick by. 8:16.

8:17.

When would he come?

He had his own process to get through behind the locked door, which included a strip search—bend, cough, and all.

8:19.

The visit was supposed to begin at 8:15, and I jealously watched our time tick away.

Since visits had only recently opened up after Covid, we were limited to two hours on opposite sides of the tiny table (no touching!) and mask-wearing—unless we were eating. (We carefully spaced our vending machine purchases so that we could eat for the whole two hours.)

Finally, the door opened and I saw him!

As he walked over to our table, smiling, I jumped up and ran. Since visitors usually wait patiently at the tables, he later told me he felt so discombobulated.

“I thought you were going to climb in my lap!”

I didn’t notice any discombobulation as he got down on one knee, in the middle of the sterile, sickly, green-and-white room and asked me to make him the happiest man in the world.  

Four months later on October 9, 2021, the fluorescent-lit room held a scattered amount of people, coupled up at tiny tables on aging linoleum floor. Two olive green-clad men with loaded holsters and big, black boots stood on a podium watching the room. The doors were locked behind us.

We stood in front of a blue ocean mural, a cross between Nemo and children’s art. His hands pressed mine firmly against his chest, a stolen privilege (he hoped the guards wouldn’t notice). Our friend stood to the side. We were only allowed to invite one guest, but that restriction didn’t matter. She was the only one who wanted to come.

The little chaplain in a brown tweed suit asked us if we were madly in love with each other.

My face lit up.

Where he lived didn’t matter. Our long-distance relationship didn’t matter. Our slim chance of ever doing anything more than kissing under the watchful gazes of the guards didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that I was exactly where I wanted to be—right there beside him.