In late September 2023, I was still getting to know my way around Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility when I was summoned to the control center, the communication hub that monitors all movement in a prison. I meandered down to the first floor with a naive smile on my face.
An officer asked me if I knew a man named Keith. “Of course I do.” My heart sank. “That’s my uncle.” The officer handed me a letter and apologized. The mail had been severely delayed because of my transfer. My uncle had written to tell me that my dad had died of leukemia. The officer kindly apologized again, this time for my loss. He told me that I could contact mental health services if necessary.
It was too late to write anything to be read at the service. There was no last-minute letter from him. No note passed through my uncle. No dying wish. He was just gone.
For people with lengthy sentences, it is inevitable that we will face the loss of a family member or friend on the outside. Many of us already feel as though we have had everyone taken away. When we are notified of a death, it is like we are finally receiving closure for what we have been preemptively mourning our entire sentence.
It had been 20 years since I last spoke to my father. But when I learned of his passing, years of hurt, blame and confusion melted away. The trauma and dysfunction of those years barely even mattered. There was only sorrow left in me, sorrow for the disconnect created and deepened by pride and anger. What a waste resentment is.
I always held out hope for what could happen when I got out of prison.
My father’s greatest gift to me was teaching me how to fish, so after I learned of his death, I pictured us on the perfect fishing trip. In this musing, he and I would have long, streamside conversations beneath a setting sun.
We would pull trout and laughter from the depths of the slow-moving water, listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival interwoven with the chirps and chatter of birds and bugs and other critters. I imagined him saying, “You know, I always treated you like I hated you because I wanted to make you stronger.” I responded, “Forget about it. Fish on.”
Alongside this cinematic reunion, I held out hope that someday we could understand one another and would develop a real father-son relationship.
I had tried to reach out to him over the years. I wrote to him, and inquired about how he was doing and what he was up to, but each time I received no response. My efforts were met with silence. Still, it felt like enough because I was sending out forgiveness and hope. I was trying.
I am grateful now that it took over a month for me to learn of my father’s death. I was able to find a way to let go because I didn’t have a choice. In prison, there simply is no other way to cope. Processing a loved one’s death was easier for me while isolated because I couldn’t be consoled or console others. There were no distractions, only my own internal hashing out.
My aunt and uncle were next to my father in his final moments at the hospice. They sent me a picture of the headstone they selected for him. They wrote again to let me know that there is a plot beside him for me, should I choose to be buried there when it’s my time.
