Shantih Journal 3.1 - Page 50

a few days ago was the most recent failure to get the kids back. I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t help them. They needed me. And I wasn’t there. Every second of every day I was letting them down. My being in prison hit me hard. At that very moment. Nobody could count on me for anything, not for money, not for support, not for a place my brother and sister could stay. I was a complete and total failure as a son and a brother. I was helpless to lend any form of support that matters in a situation like that. They were alone. And so was I. “BADger?” “I—” I coughed down a sob as violently as I could. Through a scratchy throat, I said, “No, Killer. I don’t . . . have anybody . . . to help me.” I hadn’t cried the entire six years I’d been incarcerated. I fought back the tears as recklessly and savagely as I’ve ever fought anything or anybody in my life. But reality had ahold of me. It was all unavoidable. It was like opening up a wate əݡ$ѡ͔)ɥ̸+q]ӊéɽɼt()$ɽ)5䁙ɅɕЁɕٕѡѥѡ՝Ё$Ѽѡ́ѕ)-ȸ$ѽЁ䁵̸ͥ$ѽ܁䁑݅)Ёե́ѡ́ѡЁɔ$ѽٕѡ́$ɽݹ)͕丁ٕѡ́$ݕи)]Ё݅́Ё$ЁձɅ͕QЁɥ她ѡ)ѼЁѡЁЁ݅́Ѽ$ȁ͡ѕѡٕаq-)-%11Ht!ɕ$݅́ѕɕٕMɕٕѡЁ$݅́݅ɔ)ѡЁ$݅́ͥ䁵ݡɥѕѡɔq-Ȅe)ѥѡɔ-t+qet)$хѕх$eЁ܁ݡЁѡ$݅́ͅ她Ё$݅ѕѼ)䁵ͥͼѼ́́ͥ$хeѕ!e)ѡɔQӊéݡЁ$$ٕȁЁͼəհ䁱$ձeЁ))ЁѡɽЁЁѕɥѼѡЁ͡ȁٕ䁙ٔ