It’s all a dream. Or is it?

Something was off, I could sense it.  It looked like Madear’s home, it just didn’t feel like her home.  I could hear a familiar hymn being sung sotto voce towards the side of her home where her adjacent storage building was.  She kept her washer and dryer there.  She also had two extra freezers in there holding tons of assorted meats.  Sodas were stacked to one side of the wall as high as five-feet, and gallons of assorted juices lined the floor.  Madear loved buying in bulk because she loved to cook and feed others.  There was an area opposite the beverages where all her holiday decorations were kept – including a unique white crystal four-foot holiday colored Christmas tree she proudly displayed in her window every year.  To this day I’ve never seen anything like it.  It was also the place I first kissed a girl, Carla Landry, and I liked it!

This area was not huge by any standard, but my little brother and some of my friends often used the wash-house, as we called it, as a club house. Madear would be there daily, putting loads of clothes in to wash, and once dried, she would fold and inspect to see if the whites were white enough or if the colored clothes were bright enough.  She had no problem rewashing the clothes until they met her satisfaction. 

So, it wasn’t odd to find her inside.  I rushed through the door and saw her rocking away in her hand crafted wooden rocking chair that she used to find her Zen-moments in, relaxing or simply contemplating what she would do next.   Madear didn’t speak much.  I never heard her raise her voice, but she always evaluated any situation before acting, and when she did speak, her observations or opinions were always thought-out.

I could not see the features of her face, no eyes, mouth or lips – nothing.  There was nothing but warm, blinding light.  The rest of her body, from the neck down, was there.   Even her favorite sundress graced the length of her body.  She rocked away, faster than I recalled her doing.  I tried to advance closer, but I could not move.  It was as if I was stuck in cement that had long since dried, my feet buried. 

“Don’t worry, Baby.   Everything will be fine.  You’ll see.  You’ll be fine,” she repeated.  Her voice sounded as if she was speaking to me from behind a waterfall… though soothing and comforting.  I wanted to lay my head on her lap, allowing her to pat and massage me the way one would do a cat.  Her voice brought about a sense of conviction to my soul.  I could feel tears, hot tears, running down my cheeks.  My heart started to beat more urgently.  I blinked for a second and Madear and her rocking chair started fading away in the pasture behind her home.  She faded the way a home run baseball floats away…  and is gone.

“Chow time, maggots!  Get your asses up if ya’ll wanta eats!” barked a guard.

‘Fuck!’  Steel gates crashed into more steel.  ‘It was all a dream?  A stupid, fucking dream!?!’  The mist of tears I had shed were still damp on my cheeks.  My heart was still thumping.  I turned over to see what time it was, fifteen minutes after three in the morning.  I’m not a morning person and my weakness was affirmation of that as I turned on the cell’s light.  I’m not a breakfast eater either, and I was going to refuse because it was too early to be eating, but the growling sounds coming from my empty stomach were the motivation I needed to eat something.   I was hungry.  No, I was starving, having eaten little to nothing my first few days on the famous Texas Death Row.  Pancakes were served.  They were not IHOP worthy, but I wasn’t going to be picky.  I was also given an 8-ounce carton of milk, a 4-ounce carton of orange juice and four spoons of fruit cocktail.  I ate everything before going back to sleep, hoping I wouldn’t dream again. 

Around ten o-clock in the morning an officer opened the bean slot to the cell and threw a big commissary bag in, “Some of your fellow-condemned brothers put some things together for ya.”

I stared, my eyes fixed on him, wondering if he was joking.  I don’t know if I expected a snake to crawl from the bag or a bomb to go off at any moment.  Sure, I was paranoid.  This wasn’t Kansas anymore.  I didn’t know what ‘this’ was.

After some time, I got up, kicked the bag a little, and waited for a reaction.  Nothing.  I gently opened the bag to find a bunch of snacks, four writing tablets, envelopes, and over fifty bucks in stamps which, due to my naiveté, I used to tape photos of my children to the walls.  I had no idea I was supposed to use stamps to write.  No shit.  I hadn’t written a letter to anyone at that point.  I communicated through daily phone calls or visits.  There were socks, a thermal top, and some much needed hygiene products, all of which I greatly appreciated.   No note was given. No one shouted to get my attention.  Nothing. The act of charity was empathetically done.  Guys knew I was going through some things because they went through the same ‘new beginning’.  It was an act of kindness I greatly appreciated even though I had no one to thank.

I walked to the front of the cell to look out.  The place was teeming with sounds of existence, a farrago of inmate laughter, crashing steel, buzzing light fixtures that looked like something you’d expect to see in the beginning of the 20^th century, as well as radios and multiple televisions that blared recklessly.  This ‘new world’, was too much for me to embrace, so I returned and sat on my bunk.  I grabbed photos of my children and their mothers, my mother and siblings, and I thought about what they were going through.  I loved them all dearly, and the more I thought about them, the more I cried.  I saw an unopened letter I had received the night before.  It was from one of my children’s mothers.  It started off like a Dear John letter.  She was telling me she was getting married to a truck driver.  A year earlier I shared a bed with her.  I immediately thought, ‘Where the fuck did he come from?’   At that moment, I was certain.  I was no longer dreaming.

ABOUT THE WRITER: Charles Mamou has been writing for WITS for quite some time and has always maintained his innocence. In the summer of 2019, it came to my attention Mr. Mamou had become very quiet. When I asked why, he explained he was out of appeals and awaiting an execution date. I asked to look at his documents. It didn’t take long to become very disturbed by what I saw. Some issues regarding Mr. Mamou’s case can be found here. Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at contact@walkinthoseshoes.com.

TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

You can also reach him through jpay.com.