You write letters from the other side of prison walls. You have made more than peace with death, you have made love and pledges to it; and almost casually you announce in these pages how in fact your being gone from us, will begin your new life.
But for now, persuaded by your sense of concern and mandated by the one whose dusty sandals you and me would fear to carry, you are bound to stay a little longer. And you write to me a little longer.
I continue to read; every now and then pacing between sentences, and then coming to a contemplative stop in front of the sliding glass door. I feel like a wonderer in a big city gallery whose eye has been caught by a piece that reflects and mimics my own slow, mundane, repetitive existence.
I imagine you being anxious for nothing. I wonder how I might be able to tear the secrets of your reality from the words on these pages and smash them into my reality. I sit down again and reach for your letters from this side of my prison walls. Then my eyes fall shut and I allow my whole self be aware of the heated wood of the deck slowly warming the bottom of my bare feet and I think to myself how beautiful it is, that old saying, that the righteous shall live by faith.