Doing Life

I strut towards the exit. The few extra pounds that have lingered post Covid give my steps an extra boost. A quick tap to the intercom to get out - the doors swing open. They part for me. I don’t look back at the others - but I feel their eyes on my back as I exit. Their taste of freedom vanishes as the double doors shut tightly behind me. When I return the next day, I’ll have to look them in the eye. Those three, with their six sorrowful eyes that sit by the door secretly plotting their imagined escape. And escape they should, even if it means crawling out of their wheelchairs, detaching themselves from their colostomy bags to drag themselves out into the sunlight - out of their minimum security and into the maximum sunshine. Surely one more day in the sun is better than the eternal grey that colors their soft food, their negligent children, and the granular experiences they’re expected to feign excitement for. I have always thought this sentence criminal.

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