'Gethin, please remember me'
By Brandon Astor Jones
This essay was tearfully written for Gethin Bryn Roberts, a six-year-old Welsh boy. I hope that one day he will fully understand the meaning in each word.
Weekends are especially difficult to endure at this prison. On weekends there is no mail or the come-and-go daily routines that occupy a prisoner's waking hours through the week. Weekends create enormous states of depression and loneliness as hard time crashes down upon the senses.
On one weekend recently, I was quietly writing a letter as I lay prone atop a prison bunk. From time to time, I would gaze out through the cell's bars. On the other side of the cellblock fence is a long bank of windows running the entire length of the cellblock — I estimate the distance to be 35 yards (32 metres) from the first to the last window. Each window is about eight feet (2.4 metres) high.
Beyond the bank of windows lie the "North [exercise] yard", several fences and what once was a wildlife pasture that attracted deer. A little further out is a stand of trees through which an occasional blur of a car or truck can be seen passing along the interstate highway system. I can sense all of those people passing by in various states of freedom. Sometimes — like now — looking out those windows can made me cry. The view is always painful.
It is spring now, a time that brings out many of nature's most industrious creatures. Earlier this year I saw an opossum and a skunk trapped (for a time) above, and beneath, the fence respectively.
I could hear, but could not immediately see, a sparrow chirping loudly at the other end of the cellblock. There is a screen about to fall off one of the windows at that end. Not long afterwards, the sparrow appeared directly in front of me, flying aimlessly. I was reminded that I had asked someone to fix that screen months ago as the sparrow flew hither and yon about the cellblock.
The left side, in front of the cell I occupy, has a large fan situated about six metres away. The disoriented sparrow touched down on top of it. It had a seed in its beak, which it deposited on the fan. It took flight once again — flying from one end of the cellblock to the other.
Then it began, kamikaze-like, to crash repeatedly into one pane after another in an endless bid for freedom. Its melodic chirping changed into shrieks of sheer terror. All I could do was look on in helpless empathy. I know exactly what that sparrow was going through. Sergeant McClendon suddenly appeared on the catwalk, on his every 30 minutes check of the cellblock. He tried to shoo the bird in the direction of the opened screen, but to no avail.
Eventually the sparrow found its way out and back into freedom. Of course I was happy to see it go. Later that day, allowed out of the cell for three hours, I managed to fish through the chain-link fence (which separates the catwalk and fans from the interior of the cellblock) and got that seed.
I once helped a watermelon seed to grow as tall as 13 cm before a corrections officer discovered it. I grew it in a sunlit corner of the cell in a tiny paper cup, with the seed laid on top of a bed of moist toilet paper.
The world that I subsist in is devoid of growth — except perhaps the increase of steel bars, wire and concrete. There exists in me a perpetual craving to see new life in bloom. So I planted that seed too, in one of my paper gardens, but it did not germinate. I do not even know what kind of seed it is. All I know is that it is very special — it is now a part of me. If I keep it in this death row cell, sooner or later it will be discovered during a routine cell search. It would then be deemed "contraband" and confiscated.
That is why I have sent that seed to you. In the infinite spirit of that sparrow that struggled so hard for its freedom, I entrust that seed to you in the hope that you will one day plant it in the good soil of Wales, where it can grow strong, beautiful and free. Whatever it grows up to be, when you look at it, Gethin, please remember me.
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He is happy to answer letters commenting on his columns. He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G2-51, GD&CC, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA. Brandon's childhood autobiography is available in booklet form for $16, including postage. Every cent raised will go towards defending his life. Please make cheques payable to the Brandon Astor Jones Defence Account and post to 10 Palara Place, Dee Why NSW 2099. Donations to the Brandon Astor Jones Defence Account may be made at any Commonwealth Bank, account No. 2127 1003 7638.]