The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting the room in that particular institutional glow. Both too bright and somehow dim. The visitation room smells like disinfectant mixed with something I can’t quite place, maybe the lingering scent of a hundred different perfumes and aftershaves worn by visitors trying to mask this place with something sweet, something nice.
The sergeant speaks. “Non-contact visit,” he says. My hands start to shake. The words hit like a physical blow. After a decade of waiting for my mom and son to travel from Michigan to my Texas prison for a visit, I’ll have to be behind glass.
But then, after minutes that feel like hours, contact is approved. The relief is so profound I nearly stumble.
When my son wraps his arms around me, I’m struck by how solid he is. This isn’t the boy I remember; this is a man with shoulders broader than mine, arms that could probably lift me off the ground. His beard scratches against my cheek, and I can see silver threaded through the dark hair. More gray than I have. The irony isn’t lost on me. His grip is desperate, and I have to gently break away to reach my mother.
Her hands, paper-thin now, grab mine with surprising strength. “My baby, my baby, my baby,” she whispers. Her voice has changed. It’s thinner, more fragile, but the love in it could power this entire building.
The plastic chairs creak as we settle in. Everything here is designed to be temporary, uncomfortable, utilitarian. Nothing soft, nothing that feels like home. But somehow, with them here, the harsh edges of this place soften.
It’s the white poodle, sitting calmly in another visitor’s lap, that undoes me. This little emotional support animal represents everything I’ve been denied. Twenty years without feeling fur under my fingers, without a wet nose nudging my hand, without that pure, uncomplicated love. I start to cry.
My mother’s mind wanders, jumping from topic to topic like a butterfly that can’t find a place to land. She wants to examine my surgical scars, tells the guard how to do their job better, launches into tirades about the relative superiority of Michigan prisons compared to those in Texas. Her hatred for the Lonestar State burns hot. On principle, she won’t even buy gas here.
The three of us lay our palms together like we’re playing a childhood game. That’s when I see it: My son’s hands mirror my grandfather’s exactly. The same long fingers, the same broad palms. Time collapses on itself, and I feel the presence of all who came before us, all who shaped us, gathered here in this sterile room where love must fight to survive but somehow, miraculously, does.