Rebecca

They are taking my body soon, separating my soul from its carrier. History told me this black body was never mine, but God lets me keep my soul. Where is She, the God that let this happen?

Plucked from the streets of Philadelphia by plainclothes police, I was taken into custody for the brutal stabbing and murder of my wife. In the vestibule of our brownstone, she was found dead earlier that afternoon by her sister, lying face-down in a pool of her own blood . The sun was setting, the neighborhood kids were playing, and I was proudly walking down the street, a block from our home. I knocked off early from work and was preparing to surprise her. The bouquet of blue roses I just bought from the corner market spilled into the street, as they cuffed me, read my rights and pushed me into the back seat of their car. It was our anniversary.

"He fits the bill," uttered the detective in a loud whisper outside the interrogation room. The policemen, the detective, the judge; they ran with these words and ruined my life. My lazy lawyer couldn't save me.

I used to believe in justice and progress until, in the fall of 2016, my life was strategically stolen by the system. For those of you who think the system is broken, it is a well oiled machine still in pristine condition, going strong and just as planned. Broken would insinuate our judicial structure was birthed to bear the fruit of justice. It was not.

To be wrongfully imprisoned and given time for a crime you did not commit is expected, especially when your skin reflects that of a darker hue. To be wrongfully imprisoned and sentenced to death is blasphemy at its best.

Today, like every other day, I sit still on the cold concrete floor of my windowless cell, staring up at the narrow slab of glass on the blood orange door that confines me to this cage. Sitting for hours on the hardened floor gives my bed the illusion of comfort. I am waiting for the sign of another face: A guard; the only semblance of human interaction for the day until my hour of recess at the end of the week. I could have dug a better hole in my backyard than the one I've been thrown in to finish out my days as a rabbit in this punitive wonderland. I never know which guard is coming. This minor inconsistency is something to look forward to. Most of them share the same lack of regard for my life as the system that brought me here. They open the slot in the center of the door and push through a tray with something thatʼs supposed to resemble food. It looks more like softened multicolored brick with a side of peas or mashed potatoes I am sure have been regurgitated and scooped onto my plate. But there is one guard who makes an effort to show me his kind brown eyes, as if to say, "You're not alone " or "you donʼt belong here.” He doesnʼt know it, but he stops me from going insane. This is not rock bottom. It's the end. An end that comes prematurely and predetermined by law makers many years ago.

Freedom, I imagine, is no longer in my muscle memory. It lives now only in my dreams; day and night. The life I used to live is too a distant memory, nearly. I can still smell the fresh scent of her perfume and when I close my eyes I can feel the softness of her kiss. Her heart no longer beats, but I am still surrounded by its love. Anticipating the reunion of our souls helps to withstand each passing hour as they turn into days and years. I wonʼt know the difference soon. When time is all you have, the illusion tends to fade away.