Criticism

I woke up to the first snowfall of this winter.

A thin line of snow blanketed the coiled razor wire atop the galvanized chain link fence.

A thin white line which divided the ground from the sky, the underbrush from the leafless trees, the no longer lush green lawn from this no longer clear blue sky.

This snow hazy day locked up alone to sit with nothing on my mind after my cell-mate, pulled off to court, left the never silent all the more silent, and even though everyone in here bears the burden of their own crimes, my mother's last letter hurt more than the gallows when she said:

"Not only should you be ashamed of yourself, you're not really being punished because you have a roof over your heads, a warm bed and three meals a day, a change of clothes and a radio."

Her criticism, frozen like the snow, biting like this frost, silence in volumes, melted somewhat by the last words of her eloquent, caring last letter,

"Have you made any new friends?"