Catch Up » :: My Hero (Part I of III - The "Crime")
I was 9 years old when my father left for prison. My family was forced to file for bankruptcy and we lost everything we had...The house I grew up in and the ranch it sat on went to the IRS; The horses my father bred and raised were divvied up among fellow ranchers in the area; And the Trust that had been set up for my health and education was dissolved and the millions it had once protected went to the Browns for reparations of their loss. We were left penniless and homeless.
My grandfather on my mother's side had set up a small rental property operation after he retired and he offered to move us into one of his rent houses inside the city. It was a fairly nice neighborhood with a handful of kids my age, so it was a smooth transition for me. However, an indescribable amount of pressure was put on my mother. Having only a high school education and a child at home with Cystic Fibrosis to dedicate her time to, employment was hard to come by. But at the expense of many tears and sleepless nights, she still managed to give me everything I needed and then some.
We started out making the 8-hour round trip to see my father every weekend. I remember the cold steel gates, the white brick walls and the fluorescent lights. I remember seeing him through the chain link fence and being pulled back by a guard when I tried to run through the gate to greet him. I remember they weren't allowed sodas or junk food in the mess hall, but on visitation days the vending machines were open to everyone and we always shared a package of Grandma Smith's cookies. For his impeccable behavior he was granted Trustee status and contact visits, so we were able to sit at picnic tables outside without glass separating us and for two hours every weekend, we were a family again. Until I was 13, I was allowed to sit beside him instead of across from him and I remember holding his hand and listening to the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the cane issued to him for his blindness as we made our way down the long white corridor to the visitation yard. He was adored and respected by everyone, known as "Mr Amis" instead of "Bill", and his fellow inmates never hesitated to compliment us on what a wonderful man he was. He became close friends with the chaplain, who stuck by his side when we couldn't be with him and instead of passing his sentence listlessly, he joined the chapel choir and attended the in-house state-ordained college where he finally earned his degree.
My 16th birthday happened to fall on a weekend, so I chose to make a trip to visit him instead of partying with my friends. Over those 7 years, the visits had slowly dwindled down to once every two or three months...The drive and the lack of money took its toll on my mom, but she stayed faithful to my father and we made the trip every chance we could. My birthday was the first time my father and I had ever gotten into a fight and the first time I'd ever seen him cry. He was happy to see us, but not feeling well and in a horrible mood. I remember leaving and feeling confused...The hugs had been shallow and the "I love you"s rushed. My father had never been so temperamental and sharp with me and I was ready to leave it behind, knowing that next time everything would be fine.
Three nights later, I was finishing homework in our living room when the phone rang. Within seconds of answering, my mom's eyes went wide and she began to cry. She hung up the phone, made her way to the couch, took me into her arms and told me that it had been the Texas Department of Criminal Justice on the line. My father had just died of a heart attack.
Apparently since before my birthday, he had been suffering from severe chest pains. When he visited the infirmary the morning of his death to receive his blood pressure medication that he had taken daily since he was 14 years old, they suddenly refused him, claiming they believed he had become addicted. That night, he left his cell and barely made it to the doorway of the computer lab before he collapsed and was rushed to the infirmary, where he died minutes later. I take solace in knowing that he wasn't alone...Chaplain Larson prayed with him, assured him it was alright to accept freedom and promised to take care of my mother and I. We were told that the last words he managed were prayers for us.
In September of 2012, my father's sentence would have been complete and he would have been released to rebuild his life. I have no doubt that he is in Heaven and that he checks in on me from time to time and I take great pride every time I am reminded by others that I have his eyes or his personality. I love him and miss him terribly and often wonder why people like him, people with such a positive influence on the world around them, are taken away when there is so much good left for them to do. I look back at the Polaroid pictures that were snapped throughout the years in the visitation yard and for a few seconds, I can feel the way he used to pick me up, swing me around and laugh when I grunted that he was squeezing me too tight. I imagine it's the same greeting I'll get when I see him again.
"If I could get another chance...Another walk...Another dance with him, I'd play a song that would never, ever end. How I'd love love love to dance with my father again."
