The first year was the hardest.
Learning to live with the loss. The grief. The constant ache of missing everyone and everything.
But slowly so slowly I adapted.
Made friends. Keisha became like a sister.
We talked for hours about our lives before, our families, our hopes for after.
I taught a cooking class. Showed women how to make something decent out of commissary ramen and canned vegetables.
I read. Hundreds of books. Thousands of pages. Escaping into other worlds when this one became too much.
I exercised. Running laps around the yard. Doing push-ups in my cell. Staying strong. Staying ready for whatever came next.
And I counted.
Days: 365 down. 5,475 to go.
Letters from Dante: 52.
Phone calls with Rosa: 52.
Visits from Rosa and Sofia: 4. Each one precious. Each one torture.
Sofia didn't remember me. Looked at me like a stranger. Cried when I tried to hold her.
"She's scared," Rosa apologized. "She doesn't understand"
