A copy of the present Jackson had given to me on our wedding day: the collection of Yeats poems from over at the men’s library that I had toted around while waiting for Jackson to appear.
I turned it over, inspecting carefully.
Breathless, I ran my fingers across the buckram and beveled edges, lightly tracing the title on the worn leather label. Again, I peered over my shoulder.
Carefully, I opened the book to the title page.
His penciled-in inscription read:
I won’t ever give up.
—Jackson
The very last words he’d said to me on the day we were arrested.
I flipped through the pages until I found our poem.
Pulling the book closer, I mouthed the last verse.
“‘To an isle in the water.With her I would fly.’”
Jackson had written beneath the final stanza:
My Dear Bride,
Don’t you give up on us either.
The words blurred as I pressed my palm to my mouth, comforted by the warmth of Jackson’s spirit.
Warden called out from her desk, “Find yourself a good one?”
I closed the book. Turning around, I masked my face with a sheepish grin and held up the poems.
Warden said, “I never could pass up a Yeats collection.” She leaned her head toward the window as she quoted his work in a reverent voice:
“‘I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not oneself.’” Then she finished with a wistful sigh, “FromPer Amica Silentia Lunae.”
Warden turned to stare at me, pleased, and I gawked back, surprised by the quote she’d chosen. For a second, I feared the woman might take the collection away, but she just nodded an approval and said, “You may keep it,” and turned back to her work.
Clutching the only book I wanted, I tilted my head towardthe window, waiting to be properly excused, my thoughts lingering on Jackson’s inscription.Jackson—I pressed the book to my chest—I won’t give up. I promise.
Outside, the wind picked up, skittering its buzz across the boughs of singing leaves, fluttering the tired drapes. Content, grateful for my book, I inhaled the sweet breaths of an approaching rain, and my mind drifted again to his words.
In a moment, a bright-red cardinal caught my eye when it landed on the tree branch. It flew away after a crow perched on the branch above it, then another a second later. Yet a third crow joined them and brought back the old nursery rhyme Mama taught me long ago:
“One for sorrow,
Two for mirth
Three for a funeral—”
Warden Sanders banged a drawer shut, pulling me away from the silly superstition.
She continued, “One more thing, Lovett: If you need the handyman, write up an order and send it to my office instead of putting it in the inbox to the men’s prison. Unfortunately, the prisoners over there will not be available to fulfill our requests for an unforeseen time. Hopefully in August, it will all pass.” Warden exhaled loudly.
Pass?Her words confused me.
“Ma’am, uh, they sure had themselves a lot of good books over there. I don’t mind volunteering to go back…if it can help you out.”
