Anatomy of a Cell: Four Ways

1. Roommates 

I’m afraid of spiders. Well not anymore. Sort of. I’ve come to realize their usefulness. Tucked into high corners of my cell, webs waiting to snare the unsuspecting gnat, they devour that which annoys me, leaving a floating cemetery filled with arthropod exoskeletons. It pains me now when colonels or wardens command us to wipe away those webs during inspection. Don’t they see their beauty? Their benefit? If only those on the other side of the fence wouldn’t fear me, but recognize my usefulness instead of wiping me away like trash. 

2. Made in India 

55% Poly / 30% Acrylic / 10% Cotton / 5% Other. The other  consists of a spectrum of thread combined with strands of golden tinsel and snippets of fishing line. This blanket bleeds charcoal gray hues that make the swamp summer sizzle, yet teams up with  a twin to keep me warm when I can’t shut the window in winter. It has drunk tears tinged with sweat as minutes, hours, days, months, years have piled atop a steel slab. The tag says it’s authorized for use at homeless shelters. A perfect match, as home is still so far away. 

3. Closet Space 

Three pressed, Facebook-blue uniform sets consisting of a cardboard-thick nurse-style shirt and elastic waistband pants with  white lines down the outer seams; six cotton white t-shirts; four boxers made from old sails; six socks, three of which have the heels and toes grayed out; a backup clear plastic garbage bag ready with cutouts for air conditioning; a set of frayed off-white long johns; one gray sweatshirt mismatched with a pair of sweatpants made  from a lighter gray sweatshirt; two white dri-fit t-shirts; one state issued pair of prison blue gym shorts; one pair of dark blue jersey basketball shorts; one donated bar of Irish Spring from last winter; one long, far-from-over sentence in a laundry bag. 

4. Stitches 

My sneakers are scarred. A size ten, six-year-old pair of New Balance that no longer live up to their name. They have persevered even as I have subjected them to a soccer field with more rocks than weeds. They have been sewn and patched using paperclip needles, waistband elastic threads, and a plethora of pieces from discarded Crocs and boots. They’ve recently lost their soles and been dubbed Frankenstein. Maybe if I was free I would throw them away. But I’m not and I won’t. Not just out of necessity, but because they remind me of me.