I walked through the front door with purpose: I wanted to be home.  I made a beeline to my bedroom, removing my scarf and coat as I walked.  Light on, ipod into stereo, clothes off, and soon I was half-dressed and crawling onto my bed.

I laid there on my right side and my body fell into a position it knows so well. The song Jailer by Asa came on and her raspy voice sang, “I’m in chains, you’re in chains too, I wear uniforms, you wear uniforms too.  I’m a prisoner, you’re a prisoner too, Mr. Jailer….”

Knees up, and my left foot fell into the familiar hollow of the arch on my right.

I have fears, you have fears too.  Life is beautiful, don’t you think so too, Mr. Jailer?  I’m talking to you, Jailer! Stop callin’ me a prisoner….”

Right arm wrapped around my ribcage, my left arm straight out.  My head turned to the left, shoulder dropped, chin on shoulder.  This is my comfort, this is my place, and I’m sure it’s second only to the comfort felt from months zero to nine.  Eyes closed.

The bass kept beat, percussion punctuating the air, a jazzy, syncopated beat.

I’m talking to you Jailer, stop calling me a prisoner. Let he who is without sin be the first to cast the stone, Mr. Jailer….”

My mind’s eye saw the six-year-old me run through that door, excited to play with her friends.  My mind’s eye saw my mother walk through that door with a load of laundry in her hands.  It was a bright sunny Buffalo day.  My mind’s eye saw You walk through that door; a You I’ve never met, but You nonetheless.  You were walking through, tip of the tongue ready to tell me something.  It was a bright sunny Queens day.

Jailer, Jailer oh, be good oh be good oh be good o…..”

These visions came and went like hospital visitors when you’re asleep.  You can’t seem them, but they’re felt, they’re imprinted, you feel their love.

I faded, faded, faded into sleep.  Wrapped legs, wrapped arms, cradled head, a sweet, sweet space.  Visited by ghosts, visited by promises.

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