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The Farm

I’d never known anyone who did time in jail, yet here I was driving out to the Marsh Creek Detention Facility, otherwise known as “The Farm,” to pick up my husband after he’d been sentenced to five days. I’m struggling with the reality of it all. Wasn’t I just in high school a second ago? We’d had no contact in those five days. I’m wondering what it must have been like for him as I drive on the winding country road on this warm Spring day. I wonder if I’m the wife of a felon. The beauty of the landscape is at complete odds with where I’m going. But you can’t just punch a random stranger in the face while he sits in his car even if he did call you an asshole. I think back to sitting in the defense attorney’s office where I didn’t utter one word. My embarrassment and the lawyer’s pity were palpable as we stole glances at each other. This man, with pictures of his wife and kids on the shelves above his head did a poor job of hiding his contempt for the man who sat next to me. I drive up just as a several men are released from the front gate. I see my husband. He’s smiling as he walks toward me alongside another guy. He opens the front and back door of the car at the same time and they both climb in. Who brings a friend home from jail? God, they stink.

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