Today is a strange day.
So many things are happening and not happening today.
I wrote a YA novel called A Brother's Oath and it's part of an international writing contest called PitchWars hosted by Brenda-Drake.com. Today, well tonight at midnight, my "pitch" and the first page of my book "go live" on a website to be viewed by literary agents looking for new talent. For the next couple of days, the agents will peruse the "pitches" and select some to pursue for potential representation. So, basically, I may get an agent out of this. Even if I don't, I still won because I was matched with Trisha Leaver , YA author extraordinaire. The impact that her guidance has made on my book is immeasurable. I am humbled by her kindness and wisdom.
So, yes, today I am grateful for her help. I am hopeful for the possibilities of landing an agent, but today I am also incredibly sad.
Today was supposed to be the day my son came home from prison.
We had first thought it would be Oct. 8, 2015, a date he was given by prison personnel in error. Then, it was changed to November 2, 2015. Today.
Only, the conditions of his release were called into question. We had been under the assumption (because my son was told this) that he'd qualify for "house arrest" instead of "work release halfway-house" placement because 1) the halfway house is full and 2) his home is "a good one".
We took the steps required to file for our home's clearance in the program. My husband brought documents to the designated office and signed commitment letters stating we were willing hosts for my son.
But we were wrong.
One week ago, they told him he was going to the work release halfway-house after all. Oh, and they told him he can't get a job while he's there because "they don't do that anymore."
It's a good thing I stopped trying to make sense of DOC operations and "regulations" long ago. Their "procedures" are nothing more than moving targets of arbitrary rules, random dates and times, contradicting policies and ambiguous practices.
So we took more lumps. We acknowledged the facts of the situation. He was NOT coming home just yet. He was going to live in a halfway house for up to 6 months before he could come home. We called our attorney and asked him to do what he could, and he will, though he's been honest that the odds of changing his placement are grim.
It took the weekend for me to stop crying.
Then today came. The day he was to be transferred to the halfway house facility. The day I would get to see him, touch him, hug him, without a thick bulletproof glass jammed between us.
According to his official documents, his Level 5 time (prison) expired at 11:59pm last night. He was told the Level 4 time (halfway house) began at midnight. He expected to be moved this morning. So did we. Seemed logical...
But this morning came and went.
I made my run to Target to pick up some more things he'll need, like shaving cream and socks. I held my phone in my hand all morning but it never rang.
Finally, he called me at 1:00pm today.
He had just been told the following concerning his transfer, "Oh, we only do runs to the Plummer Center on Wednesday mornings. That's when you'll go."
Um, ok.
THAT would have been nice to know sometime BEFORE NOW. On the day my son was sentenced, our attorney said something to me I'll never forget. We were talking about when he might possibly, actually, realistically be released and our attorney said this, "I'll never understand prison math."
Neither will I.
So here we are again: in the perpetual state of WAITING. In the strange, familiar place of happenings and non-happenings where things may be predicted but should not, can not be expected, or God-forbid assumed.
Where
even the
littlest
sense
of hope
slips
through
your fingers.
