Fridays on death row are good for one thing – visits from family and friends. Today when I arrived at visitation, I found my mother waiting beyond the fortified glass. She smiled earnestly, unfazed by the officer who secured me in an isolated booth. After greeting each other, we talked momentarily before I noticed that she was squirming in her seat. Her effort to contain herself was evident, though I still hadn’t guessed why.
Then, out from beneath the steel counter crawled an adorable, yet furtive, tot. She wore a teddy bear t-shirt, fluffed trousers, and her plaits were fastened with assorted hair bows. She whirled around to study me with cinnamon eyes that held me in their gaze. A subtle smile crept along her face before I watched her struggle to climb onto the seat, defiant of her pintsized stature. There was a fearlessness, a result of her naïveté, which left me feeling intimidated. I searched my thoughts for an explanation, but they only gave way to guilt. Her confusion was marked by an arched brow as the discomforting silence increased. She then rocked on her haunches, squared her shoulders and declared, “Hi. I’m Caleiyah, and you’re my granddaddy.”
My tears betrayed me as I feigned a cough and risked wiping my eyes. “That’s right, baby…,” I affirmed with a joyous smile, then added, “… I’m your granddaddy.” Gosh – there was so much I wanted to say, yet I didn’t know where to begin. I wanted Caleiyah to know how much I needed to hold her and the agony I felt was because I couldn’t. I wanted to say how sorry I was for not being there and that I promised to make it up, though I knew I may never get that chance. I wanted to say, “Look, Caleiyah – I’ve made mistakes, but people can change.” So many things I wanted to say, yet they all felt like excuses. With a heavy sigh, the words rolled off my tongue, “So, how’re you doing, baby?” It was all the encouragement the two year old needed to take charge of the situation.
Caleiyah chatted up the silence, providing the lowdown on everyone she knew. Her steadiness for storytelling left little room for opinions; still I admired her outspoken personality. There she was making things easier for me as I tussled with past decisions that kept me away. I’d often pose a question at random, then listen as she rambled on. We played games, sang, and did other activities that dismissed the divider between us. They were the first moments I’d spent with my granddaughter, while my death sentence meant it could be the last.
A knock from outside the door announced the time when visitors prepared to leave. Caleiyah seemed distracted by the sudden departure of others as she glanced back and forth. With tremendous effort, I buried my sadness, though my voice yielded to the pain. Caleiyah stood up on the stool, pressed her forehead to the glass, and said, “It’s ok, granddaddy. I’ll be back.”
What a remarkable child to have taken my woefulness and molded it into comfort. Her interaction excused my failures with no apologies required. They gathered their jackets and headed for the exit while Caleiyah blew kisses goodbye. Soon, the elevator arrived and took them away, and finally, I cried alone.
©Chanton
I’ll never forget that summer day in ‘78 when my childhood innocence was shattered. I was four, the sun was out, and my only interest was in candy and fun. We lived in Mary Ellis trailer park, a scant neighborhood on the lower eastside of town. Everyone was treated like family in Mary Ellis. Even the insurance guy and the mailman were often shown hospitality. It was a fine community to grow up in – until that day when everything changed.
Helen’s estranged husband, behind the wheel of his blue Chevy Nova. Whirling tires spat dust and gravel as he backed the manic machine into the street and barely avoided smashing a parked car. His chestnut skin glistened with perspiration while franticness hardened his face. As Uncle Jimmy scoured for an escape, I thought to wave goodbye.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of 
Last night I dreamed I was dying. Not from illness or old age – I was going to be executed by lethal injection. It all happened so fast. One moment I was living my miserable, yet consistent seventeen years of incarceration. The next thing I knew, my number was up.
You have no idea what welfare tastes like or how the lump in the throat of a proud woman feels as her child gleefully laces up his used shoes.
Another thing that I carry is loyalty. I carry it to a fault. I believe that power is vulnerability, and that even the mightiest of men have an Achilles heel. Mine is the naiveté that everyone views loyalty the same as I.
I was so elated to see the trap had actually worked. I sprang towards the prize with little consideration for anything but my own sense of accomplishment. I had outsmarted the opposition and conquered it. I had won.
Sometimes I think it’s karma. The encounter with the bird was certainly not the only stain on my moral canvas. I would go on to do many things I regret. Other times I think maybe it was a test. That the bird was sent to metaphorically provide an escape from a gateway of terrible decisions and a path from which there was no return. Maybe the bird was never really trapped at all. Maybe it was me all along. If so, then here I wait – afraid, lonely, and confused, feeling violated and victimized, and desperately hoping for the day when a crack of sunlight will come creeping through.