It’s been five years. The time doesn’t get easier, just more familiar. The covid years were the easiest, because what was I really missing? There are still bad days, though, just never as bad as others. My bad days are feeling sorry for myself and missing family and friends.
Yesterday, dawg in the back hall got jumped, clubbed with a lock, and stabbed with a broken broom stick. Last summer, a kid hung himself in the bathroom. Years ago, an alleged rat got waxed–dawg cooked up coconut oil in the microwave until it boiled, and threw it in the rat’s face, which melted away like he just opened the Ark of the Covenant. THOSE are bad days.
Awhile back my birthday came and went quietly, just a few extra books and a jpay from my mom. I treated myself to a warm honey bun with peanut butter–a penitentiary cake–and didn’t make a wish but a prayer: bring back good time.
Easy Trouble 