Today marks my twenty-fifth birthday in prison. Nothing to brag about. I was 29 years old when I walked through the prison gates. Now, I am 55, and still here. The years, long and tedious, have tried to snuff out any hope I have for freedom; they have demolished my faith to nil, forcing me to repulsively drink the bitter dregs of doubt, loneliness, and frustration.
Who will remember my birthday? My sons, now in their mid-twenties, have long forgotten; my parents, in their early eighties, too old to remember; my friends, few in number, likely here and there; other prisoners, well, simply unaware. So on this special day (at least, in my eyes) I’ll just say, “Happy Birthday to me,” for one more year lived, for one more year waiting to be unshackled and be set free. https://fnd.us/829bk6?ref=sh_
