I know these walls can talk. It's true.
I hear them daily, I can hear them now.
Shhhh, can you?
No? Okay. Come a little closer.
I know it's hard to hear with the officers shouting,
Inmates counting, doors slamming,
And women shrieking in despair.
It's not quiet here. Not ever.
Not even for a minute.
When it's too quiet - something is wrong.
Even in the night, when the noise ebbs and
The daily, mundane routine ends,
The time when my mind takes over,
And the sounds of silence pierce the air
With stories of shame,
Stories of fear,
Stories of bad choices,
Stories of abandonment,
Stories of humiliation,
Stories of poverty,
Stories of neglect,
Stories of abuse and pain.
Even the walls cry out, "Mercy, Grace!"
I know because I hear them.
They cry because they're
ugly, beige cinderblocks - not worth a second look,
Not worth a first, for that matter.
Mostly they cry because nobody hears them.
I know this because they told me.
They scream inside with the longing to share stories,
To talk about mistakes made and lessons learned,
To teach through experience,
To tell others they know what it is like to walk a mile in their shoes.
But no one wants to listen.
Will you read my writings and listen?
* * * * *
Eulie is my pen pal through Letters 4 the Lord. I am blessed by her friendship and her letters.