In Prison, Holding Handwritten Cards Is a Rare Joy. Illinois Is Taking It Away. |
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It came in a red envelope, postmarked December 27, 2010. It was addressed to me at Menard Correctional Center, cell 546 in the south uppers. The return address stunned me when I read it. It came from Sacramento Street in Vallejo, California, 94590. The sender’s name was Gramma, Aimee Bell. I examined the handwriting for a long while, trying to remember if I’d ever seen it before. It did not spark a memory. I noticed she’d made a mistake on the last “a” in gramma and the “6” in her apartment number. They were both thicker and darker, where she’d retraced them to connect her misprints. Her lettering was a bit shaky, but almost perfect for a woman of 77 years of age.
I carefully removed the staple put in by mailroom staff after they sliced it open to inspect its contents for dangerous contraband. I pulled the envelope open, then quickly put my nose to it and inhaled deeply. I was hoping there would be remnants of a scent that would transport me back to my preteen years and the time I spent watching her expertly weave her long black locks into this strange donut she told me was called a bun.
I smiled when I caught the slightest scent of perfume. I took another long, deep inhale, this time hoping to commit it to my olfactory memory. I’d been incarcerated for the past 20 years of her life and hadn’t seen her for 23 years — the last time being at the burial of my father.
I removed the card from its envelope, and on the front was a colorful cartoon of the three wise men. Two of them had their gifts for baby Jesus, and the third had an oversized, green Frankenstein monster. The other two looked at the third, and one of them said, “You idiot!… I said go and get Frankincense!” I laughed and opened the card to find the words, “Happy Holidays.”
I was happily surprised to find a handwritten message that read:
Hi Mike
Be blessed
Be strong
And know that you are loved.
I thought you would find
This card funny.
I re-read the message several times, not wanting it to be over. Focusing that day, as I’ve done hundreds of times since, on one line: “And know that you are loved.”
There was one more thing in that card that would become one of my most prized possessions — a picture. In that picture my grandmother was sitting in a chair, with her head slightly tilted to the right. She had a small grin on her lips, and she peeked directly at me from behind her round, gold, thin, wire-rimmed glasses. Her right hand was raised, as if she was using her thumb to gesture to my Aunt Steph. She was leaning in close, making sure she fit into the frame.
Tears began to well up as I studied every inch of her face. I recognized the features of my father, my aunts, brother, nieces, and nephews. I saw myself. There wasn’t a wrinkle to be found anywhere on her face of almost 80 years. She was beautiful. Our skin tones matched, our eyes matched, and so did our lips. The ones my mother refers to as “them Aimee Bell lips.” On both of their heads was that famous Bell mane. Thick, wavy and past their shoulders. My aunt had her arm around my gramma’s........