I do not need more space.
My porch faces the hills.
Lily lives ten minutes away.
She has a daughter now.
My granddaughter, Emma.
Emma is six.
The same age Lily was when I went to prison.
That fact still catches in my throat.
Emma loves the cave.
She thinks it belongs to pirates.
I have not corrected her.
One afternoon, she asked.
“Grandma, did you really live in here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t have a house.”
She thought about that.
“Were you scared?”
“Yes.”
“Did you cry?”
“A lot.”
She nodded seriously.
Then asked.
“Did Patch protect you?”
“Mostly he stole my food.”
She laughed.
Then ran outside.
I watched her.
My granddaughter.
Running freely across land my grandfather hid for me.
Somewhere between prison and that moment, my life had become larger than the sentence that once defined it.
I wish I could tell the woman who walked out of prison with thirty-eight dollars.
