Touched by an Angel By Anthony Lucero |
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At the age of 49 I made my first
snow angel. Once again I found myself in prison. For the first decade or
so, I heeded the advice I'd received during a previous stretch: "Mind
your own business." Like a kaleidoscope roughly shaken, the days spun
into weeks, the weeks spun into months, and the months spun into years
ad nauseam. During that time I witnessed a lot of men turning into
stone, i.e. their hearts were hardening, as if they had gazed into
Medusa's
fiery eyes, or like water wearing down a
mountain, time was wearing them down.
I couldn't
allow that to happen to me. The recollection of a conversation with a
part-time girlfriend of mine was fortuitous, she told me about making
snow angels as a child. Christmas was a week away. I decided to do
something I had never observed in prison. I was going to create an
angel. I carefully planned the deed for that night; I was thrilled.
While walking
back from the chow hall, a huge smile appeared upon my face as Ruben,
Reyes, and I approached Unit 2. The sun was setting and you could see a
fresh blanket of pristine sparkling snow in front of the building. I
suddenly laid down in it, instantly feeling its chill on the nape of my
neck and hands, as I vigorously flapped my arms and legs. It was
exhilarating; for a moment I was free. Leaping to my feet I asked Ruben
and Reyes to dust the snow off me.
We knew the
inside tower would radio Unit 2 to report the snow incident. As we
ambled in the Unit, Sgt. O'Brien was waiting in the vestibule with a
frown on his haggard face - a face worn down by booze. He barked at us,
"Which one of you asses made the snow angel?" We acted like we didn't
hear him, so he ordered us against the wall to frisk us. During the
frisk he found traces of snow that crept into my jacket pocket.
Busted
cold-handed I confessed to being the culprit that caused him to leave
the warmth of his office. He radioed security requesting an escort for
one prisoner, "one-nine-seven" — code for inmate going to segregation.
Incredulously with eyebrows arched I retorted, "How is it going to look
sending me to the hole for making a
snow angel? Everyone’s going to think
you are some type of
Grinch." In a voice with the
gruffness of a fifth generation guard, he said, "Get the hell out of
here."
In the morning
my perfect snow angel greeted everyone. It ruled the yard that day and
changed the mood of those seeing it. Most of us were grateful to be
touched by an angel.
I know I was.
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