Over these past weeks, I've been sharing entries from my prison journal about each of my children. They are fragments of memory, written during a time when I was struggling with the consequences of my incarceration and what it meant for my family. This final entry is about Brian, our youngest.
BRIAN
So unprepared for
him;
we didn’t even have
a name, or a
room.
His little bassinet
without a
place;
next to our bed
in those early
days.
He squeezed my finger
in his little
palm;
eyes wide and smiley
face.
I should have known then—
this special
one.
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