My father came to see me today, June 4, 2014. He usually comes every few years, which I understand. He’s seventy-six and it hurts him to see his only son a prisoner, like this. Our moments together are usually spent far away from anything emotional. We understand words aren’t necessary, but deep down we both suffer. My father is a strong, hard man, who will never allow me to see him weak. He knows I blame myself just as he blames himself for my circumstances, so we pretend to be okay and life goes on.
I love my father and know I let him down. I failed everyone, including myself. No matter what I do, I can’t change what I’ve done. For that I’m truly sorry. I have many regrets. My actions caused a great deal of pain, and I accept responsibility for that. I hope by writing my story, some good will come of it. Perhaps a life can be saved, spared, or changed, before it’s too late.
I don’t know why I’m so driven—why art and its creation calls to me with such passion. I just know I must answer its call with a sense of urgency. How long I have left here is not up to me. However, with each piece I create, I’m at the verge of a breakthrough and will finally find what I’ve searched for my entire life. This allows a sense of satisfaction to heal me. Knowing all the pieces of me, through my art, have escaped these barbaric and brutal surroundings, to live long after I’m gone, gives me the greatest satisfaction of all. Art is not a luxury. For me, it’s a necessity.
I sometimes sit and look out the dirty window directly in front of my cell and wonder if I’ll ever see the end of this. Over thirty years have passed since I was placed behind these walls. Everyone has gone on with their lives.
I wonder about my son, William, and what he thinks as he looks down to see his father struggle as I do. Does he wonder if I’ll fall? Or does he know, as I do, that no matter what, I will pick myself up and rise again? A father never stops being a father.
The face that stares back at me in the mirror is different now. My Van Dyke is nearly all white. Where there was once smooth skin, lines mark the many years I’ve spent in this concrete and iron cage. But in an instant, my eyes come to life. He’s still there—that child. Suddenly, he smiles at me. All is not lost.