I woke up at 2:30 a.m. Not because I had to, but because I couldn’t sleep. It felt like Christmas morning. My mind was racing. What’s under the tree? What time is it? Where’s Santa? 

I wasn’t actually waiting for Christmas presents. I was waiting for my family to visit me. In prison, you don’t just serve time, you serve distance — from your family, from comfort, from anything that feels human. But last spring, I received a special kind of visit, what the Missouri prison system calls a family restoration visit.

These visits happen only three times a year. They offer more freedom than a standard visit. You have to meet certain behavioral criteria to attend, and only 30 people are chosen. At my prison of roughly 2,600 people, it’s so selective that a spinning, digital lottery wheel nicknamed the Wheel of Fate is used to narrow down the pool. 

Typically, visits at my facility take place in a large room with spotty drop ceilings, clinical lighting and beige tile floors. The room is crowded with small plastic chairs huddled around tiny, numbered tables. Couples are required to sit across from each other, and the only physical contact allowed is hand-holding and brief hugs and kisses during hellos and goodbyes.

A restoration visit, in contrast, is basically a picnic. You’re allowed to wear personal clothing instead of your uniform. Your loved ones can bring food into the facility. And you’re encouraged to take a walk or play games together.

But once restoration visits are over, all those beautiful things are taken away again. The visits are powerful and positive, but painful too.

Ready for a visit

In anticipation of the visit, around 9:30 a.m., I called my wife, Taylor. She told me that the night before she had bought sandwiches and cookies, and baked a homemade carrot bread for the visit. The carrot bread was a nod to a carrot cake she made me for my 23rd birthday before I went to prison.

Speaking to her that morning I sensed she was distraught over whether the carrot bread would be sweet enough for my liking. A family restoration visit, like Christmas, is often most joyful for those who don’t have to plan.

At 10:50, we ended our phone call. Taylor, my mother and my grandmother had arrived at the prison. I hurried to get in line and processed for the visit. 

There was some initial confusion among the staff concerning our processing. We waited outside for at least 30 minutes, after expecting that we wouldn’t wait at all. We couldn’t help our families carry anything, but we set up games in the recreation yard: bean bag toss, sidewalk chalk, volleyball, basketball, Wiffle ball and a game called Bean Bag Bucketz.

Once our family members walked out of the visitation building, we were instructed to “meet them halfway.” A small group of us scrambled forward, unsure exactly where “halfway” was, which led to us standing awkwardly in the middle of the maintenance road that separated the small yard from visitation. We picked out our people from the incoming crowd. When I spotted my family, I led them to a table. 

Little freedoms

Taylor and I sat down side by side. She looked unsure, her eyes wide and timid. On regular visits, couples are only allowed to sit across from each other, never next to one another. It felt like what we were doing was against the rules.

As we ate, I realized that, in a last-ditch effort to sweeten the carrot bread, Taylor had sprinkled sugar and cinnamon generously across the top. I pictured her in the kitchen, shaker in hand, pacing. 

The conversation took off smoothly. 

We discussed family, my grandmother’s recent trip to Oklahoma, and the squirrels that frequent my prison. Then we walked around. At first, it felt wrong to leave our table. But the vibe cracked open as time went on and people got comfortable. 

We played Bean Bag Bucketz, and I introduced my family to my first caseworker, some staff members and peers. 

My mother and grandmother left an hour early, so Taylor and I could have alone time. We walked around and sat in the shade, taking in the little freedoms. 

I gave the best limited tour of the facility I could. As we passed by a housing unit, Taylor eyed the cells.

“I didn’t realize how small your windows are,” she said.

Afterward, we nestled together on a bench, while staff and volunteers hauled folding tables and plastic chairs away. We savored the time we had left. 

Tears welled up in Taylor’s eyes. Then, for the first time in years, I wiped away her tears. This was different than sitting across from her or talking on the phone, paralyzed and frustrated by barriers between our love. I was now able, for a moment, to console her, to comfort her.

Bittersweet aftermath

Days later, emotions from the visit lingered. I felt like something had ended. Without realizing it, I had wrapped all the emotion from that day around the hope of going home. 

I thought back to two years ago, when I was in solitary confinement, and Taylor and I shared a no-contact visit. I remembered how it felt to press my shackled hands up against the plexiglass that separated us. To speak through small glass holes. To know I hadn’t been taken to the shower for three days, and to wonder if she could smell me. Oddly, the ache I felt after the family restoration visit echoed that memory. We said goodbye without knowing when we’d be together like that again.

A family restoration visit is restorative but also something you have to recover from. Like a vacation you didn’t want to leave. Like a high that ends with a crash.

“How am I supposed to just go to work now? And then go to work, and then go to work?” Taylor had asked me as we said goodbye. 

I knew what she meant. After the visit, I could picture her better. I saw her everywhere. Like that first night in prison, when her presence lingered in the bed beside me, even though she wasn’t there.  

It was beautiful to see my mother, grandmother and wife outside, to show them my temporary home. But I’m angry that reconnection is a controlled reward in prison, held just out of reach like bait. I’m angry that separation is punishment. I’m angry that visitation is a privilege. I am angry at how prison made Taylor unsure if she could do something as small as sit beside me. I am angry at myself for once taking freedom for granted. I am angry about not being happier. I’m angry that this visit was one of the best days of my life.