“Yes, I remember, Geraldine. It’s a handsome name.”
“My prize hen’s name was Charlotte,” a woman proclaimed.
“Fern’s my aunt’s name.”
“John was the name of my first beau!”
“I always hoped to date a boy named Henry Fussy,” one teased.
“Well, I wanted myself a Lurvy.” A small woman crossed clawed hands across her disappearing breasts, lifting a smirk.
“Give me a good ol’ Templeton any day,” one spouted.
“Fitting for an old snitch,” Geraldine batted back, wriggling fingers under her nose.
Guffaws and clapped laughter and smothered giggles sliced through the glum as the women named the characters, all boasting and making outlandish declarations.
Their storytelling warmed me.
Astonished, Officer McGee stood and scratched his head.
The inmates were changing into something he had never seen—human, instead of animal. Young and spirited, instead of feeble and useless.
I hoped he could see the children they were, the daughters, sisters, spouses, aunts, mothers, and grandmothers.
Many recalled childhood tales, excited to share stories of pets, budding romances, spent youth, husbands, young’uns, and lost families.
Marigold hung back in the corner despite me waving her over, her face twitching in pain.
When I packed up my reads, I asked the guard if I could dress her sores. Inside the washroom, I cleaned her wounds and smeared her backside with honey. Geraldine wheeled herself in, and when she saw what I was doing, she begged me to tend to hers, pulling up her gown and revealing ugly ulcers on her flesh.
“Mother used honey for all the ails, like her mother,” she told me. “Thank you.”
“Mine did too,” I said, smiling. “And you’ll be good as new in no time, Miss Geraldine.”
“It’s already feeling better.” Then she quietly asked, “Does it hurt?”
“Miss Geraldine?”
“Being blue like that.”
“I’m in no pain. Fit as a fiddle, sure enough, but sometimes the color can feel a bit heavy… Well, like grief. Sadness.” I tapped a finger against my heart. “In here.”
“I’m blue all the time,” she confided, patting her own chest.
After a week, their sores were healing nicely, leaving only the train tracks of spotted scars and me begging Waldeen for more honey.
When the prison nurse was alerted to the elderly women’s improved health, and I told her about the healing power of honey, she quickly ordered her aid to bring more. A few of the geriatric women were up and slowly ambling about, some insisting on using only canes, their pains lessened.
Several were interested in mending the guards’ uniforms, sewing on missing buttons and hemming britches. Some even took up needlework classes the Women’s Clubs provided once a week inside the prison.
I was witnessing a glimmer of light climb to the surface as they hungered for hope and found meaning in what little life they had left.
***
Soon, word got around about my visits to the wards, and I received an unusual request.
On a Thursday evening in late May, Warden sent word asking if I would volunteer at the men’s prison for the opening of their new library.
