This week’s prison object is one of my own.
Ordinary Letter (OL)
The officer told me, “The prison will pay for the stamp. Don’t say we don’t look after you!”
He handed me a small manilla envelope and what looked like a sheet of paper torn from the centre of a school exercise book. The paper was lined, had staple holes in the middle and the first page was ink-stamped with the prison’s address on the top.
I had had a restless first night in prison. My head had been spinning with all of the things I needed to say to my family and friends outside. I needed to sort my flat, my car. I needed to speak to my boss. I needed to get some decent clothes sent in. I needed to speak to a decent solicitor.
I needed everybody’s dates of birth so they could book visits and come and see me. I needed everybody’s addresses and phone numbers – my smart phone had made me lazy and I had ceased to memorise anything.
I needed to tell them not to forget me. I needed their reassurance. I had to tell them how horrible this place was, how scared I was.
I looked at the empty page. I needed to decide who to write to.
“Dear Mum,” What next?
“I’m so sorry.” I began.
I could think of nothing else to say, or perhaps I hadn’t the words to say what I needed to.
I signed off, “Your son.”
