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
