#dot lyon

Your voice cracks at the end of your sentence, a strangled sob leaving your lips. You squeeze your eyes shut, bending over the table, your elbows on the table. You cover your face with both hands, the heels of your hands pressed against your eyes.

Unable to control yourself, you cry. It’s quiet sobs, nothing too dramatic, but just as painful. Your body shakes a little from the controlled sobs, your mouth parted from the cry.

After a couple of minutes, you calm yourself down. You take another deep breath, pulling yourself up from the table, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. 

Your hands are a little trembling, just like your lips, as you press your fingers under your eyes and look up. You glance at the phone, which is still recording, and let out an ashamed laugh.

“Sorry, but huh-” you chuckle sadly, pulling in front of you a cardboard box that was out of reach of the camera, with things to bring to the visitation today, “it’s impossible not to cry today,” your voice cracks again.

You whip the few last tears, looking from your phone to the box in front of you, “today completes a year that he has been in jail.” You take a shaky breath, your hands moving absently through the things inside the box.

“But anyway,” you shake your head after a couple of seconds, grabbing the edges of the cardboard box, widening your eyes, trying to focus, “I didn’t come here to cry, so let me show you what I'm going to get for my dear Gator.”

You pull the box aside a little, just half-framed, and then you pull a ziplock plastic bag full of cookies inside it. You look at them in your hand, smiling warmly at yourself, your chest aching while you try your best not to cry again.

You look back at the camera, lifting the bag. “These are his favorites,” you chuckle tenderly now, your eyes still a little glassy as you look at the bag again, staying quiet for a few seconds. 

You count how many cookies there are, smile proudly at yourself, and are happy for Gator when you see there are about 20 in the ziplock. You look at the camera again.

“He loves oatmeal raisin cookies,” you wiggle the bag slightly to the camera, “it’s his favorite,” you say softly, with a less sad smile on your lips, chuckling to yourself, “sorry, I already said that.”

You pull an empty, firm plastic box that is out of the camera frame, bringing it into view, but just half of it as well, and you gently place the bag of cookies inside it.

“I, huh,” you add, “I made them yesterday, they are not warm anymore, obviously,” you chuckle while finishing to set the bag down, “but they are soft, just the way he likes them,” you smile warmly to yourself, glancing to the camera, then back to the cardboard box.

You lift a large plastic serving dish, place it between the two boxes, and grab another from the box, stacking it on top of the previous one.

“Those are some of his favorite dishes,” you smile to the camera, proud of yourself, your hands on top of the latter serving dish. 

“This one,” you point to the one below, “it’s barbecued ribs with barbecue sauce,” and you point to the one on top, “and this one is mac’n’cheese.”

“I made them this morning,” you add while arranging them in the plastic box, “they are still warm, and these serving dishes are kind of thermos, so I hope they are still warm when I go meet him,” you smile just by picturing you handing him his favorite dishes still warm. 

God, how you miss that beautiful, sweet smile of his… You dream about it every day. You dream about him every day. 

You begin to get emotional again, so you shake your head, blinking away the tears that are coming, focusing on the activity you are to do.

“A friend of ours is going to pick me up soon,” you say, grabbing two large, transparent 2-liter bottles from the box. “She is so sweet,” you smile to the camera, playing with the bottles in each of your hands, a way to keep yourself from shaking and ease your anxiety.

“Her name is Dorothy.” Your eyes soften just by saying her name, flashes from your previous, brief encounters passing through them.

“I met her during the months his father and his trial were happening.” Your eyes got glassy again, and you clenched your jaw at the mention of Roy. 

You shake your head, trying to get him out of your mind, focusing instead on that beautiful soul named Dot. 

You chuckle, rubbing your eyes, “her mother-in-law designated an amazing lawyer for him. She could put him in a medical facility. It’s still a prison, you know?” 

You look at the camera, taking a deep breath, a soft smile on your lips, “but they take care, at least better care, of Gator than the usual prison would take care of him,” you smile gratefully at Lorraine just by saying it.

“After the visit later today, we are going to have dinner here at my place, and since I made a lot of lemonade and grape juice…” You wiggle the bottles, giggling proudly to yourself as you place them in the plastic box.

“We are going to discuss his appeal.” Your smile fades slightly, your tone growing serious. “I know some of you,” you place one of the bottles inside the box to point to the camera, “might say some mean shit about it,” you do a mocky and irritated face, “but we are working on proving that Gator was under the influence of his father to do the things he did.”

You look back at the camera, both hands on the table, your face serious. “He did bad things, no one is denying this,” you say as you turn to the box and search for the next thing inside.

Your voice becomes more irritated during your speech, “but he only did them because of his father. Because he was seeking his approval, his fucking love!”

You pause, grabbing the edge of the box and taking a deep breath to calm yourself, your knuckles turning white from how hard you are holding it. 

Your body is shaky from anger, just like your breath, so you shut your eyes to focus on your breathing. “The lawyers said he has good chances to decrease his sentence and time in prison,” you say through your teeth, not a lot, but a little less irritated.

“We just need to gather all the documents and poofs to take to court,” you pull away from the box, running your hands to the edges of it, calmer, exhaling heavily. You shake your head, searching inside the box again.

“Aha!” You exclaim after a couple of seconds, grinning more easily and truthfully widely as you take a thick piece of paper, folded so many times. You start to unfold it carefully, glancing at the camera, “I made this with the help of an intuition that works with Braille.”

“My Gator is blind now.” Your tone is serious now, with you swallowing a lump in your throat, trying your best not to cry again. “He lost his vision in both of his eyes, so he is now using his touch for everything.”

“I got this idea from something he did in an art therapy session he had there in prison,” you smile sadly but fondly as well, still unfolding an A0 piece of paper.

“He made a sculpture of my body during his sessions,” you say, getting emotional, chuckling with happy tears in your eyes as you finish unfolding the paper in your hands, “he said it is to remember me until my next visit.”

You wipe your tears while smiling tenderly towards the camera. “And well,” you say, turning the big paper toward the camera, “I don’t know how to do a sculpture, but I got help to make the dots to make it 3D for him to touch.”

You smile to the camera, seeing the big photo through the screen of your phone, “When his father’s farm was about to be auctioned because of all the tax evasion, Dot and I searched all around it looking for good things to keep,” you point to the big photo in your hands, “and this one was one of them.”

It’s a maximized photo of Gator and his mother, Linda. It’s mostly their faces, so it will be easier to make raised dots along the contours of their faces, eyes, and mouths, as well as other important features. 

“As Dot was telling me once, this was the last photo they took together,” you smile tenderly, but also a little sad too. “he was around 14 years old here, and then she… disappeared,” you feel a lump in your throat.

“So, huh,” you clean your throat, looking back to the camera, smiling a smile that doesn't reach your eyes, “I got in contact with an institution that works with things like that, because I was really afraid to ruin it,” you chuckle nervously.

“But in the end…” You say softly, taking a deep breath while smiling fondly at the photo in your hands, a smily Gator and beautiful Linda, a woman you never had the chance to know, “it ended up way better than I thought… I hope he likes it.”

You fold it again, smiling proudly to yourself, scanning the box as you put the big photo in a green envelope you pull out of the camera frame to see where to place it inside the plastic box.

“I’m also bringing him socks and underwear,” you take a big bag from one box to the other, “they are made of cotton and are way more comfortable than the ones in his facility.”

You are tucking the bag carefully there while adding, “I know since they have better quality, the inmates will try to steal them from him.” You clench your jaw, swallowing hard, your eyebrows furrowing, your features becoming angrier. 

“But I prefer buying new socks and boxers to him, how many times needed, spending my money on them, than letting him wear those,” you search for a good word, “bad quality clothes that place gives to them,” you complain, wrinkling your nose.

You look to the camera, taking a deep breath. “And as I said before, Gator is blind, and since he is in prison, there is no short-term option to self-care there, even if it’s a medical facility, so…” you say while grabbing stuff from the box, placing them on the table.

“I bring to him constantly some products his doctor instructed that would be good for him to use.” You take the first one out from the table, showing it to the camera, “This first one is a neutral baby shampoo,” you chuckle to yourself, recalling a memory.

“Gator asks me to take the sticker label because the guys there are all macho,” you deepen your voice at the last words, mocking their behavior, “so god forbid an incarcerated man to use a baby shampoo,” you roll your eyes, annoyed. 

You point to the camera, incredulous, the bottle in your hand, “they are all disabled in some way, each one with their difficulties, and they still waste time with this shit,” you sigh, irritated, “unbelievable,” you shake your head, taking a deep breath.

“But anyway,” you wiggle the yellowish shampoo bottle with no label toward the camera, placing it in the plastic box, then return to the products in front of you, “he needs it because it doesn’t burn when it reaches his eyes, and also prevents some infection on his eyelids.”

You grab and lift two products placed in front of you, one in each hand, “I also get him every time he needs a lubricating and gel eye ointment,” you show to the camera, bending over the table slightly to get the products into focus.

“They are to help his eyes to maintain their humidity, along with…” You grab the third product, showing closer to the camera, “these eye drops,” and bring it back to you. 

“They help to keep his eyes as healthy as possible within the conditions,” you smile tenderly, putting the products into a toiletry bag you grabbed from inside the cardboard box, then placing it in the plastic box.

“Because of his doctor suggestion as well,” you turn to the other cardboard box, grabbing three glasses cases, smiling beamingly, putting them on the table, “Gator needs sunglasses, so once a month, Dot and I buy some pairs for him to wear,” you say while opening all three, “and we choose funny and different designs everytime,” you chuckle beaminly, lifting one by one to the camera: a heart shapped one, then the lucky glove, and then the cloud shaped one.

“He always complains for like five seconds,” you put the sunglasses back in their cases while giggling, “but he always ends up wearing them, one different per day.” 

You glance at the camera, smiling tenderly, placing the glasses cases in the plastic box carefully. “I’m glad he had his mother and Dot around, even if for just a short period of time.” 

You smile a little sadly, but also grateful, looking away, “he would have turned into a worse person than he previously was if he just had his father around.” 

You look to the camera, placing your hand on the table, “Gator wore a carapace his whole life trying to impress that piece of shit of his father, and this became worse without Dot and Linda there with him to show him kindness is something real,” you take a deep breath, a little shaky.

“I don’t know what happened, but since we met and started dating, he became a whole new person,” you smile sweetly, your eyes getting glassy, “probably he just needed someone to love and care for him truly, I guess.”

“But anywaaaay,” you chuckle, rubbing your eyes, wiping away tears as you sniffling, “let’s continue, shall we?” you say, already grabbing a lot of potato chips from one box and putting them into the other.

“Gator used to vape, but now, for medical reasons, he can’t anymore,” you are not counting, but there are almost 10 chips snack bags, “so we are trying to find something to help him de-stress. Now we are trying chips,” you show to the camera.

“He likes the barbecue one, onion and parsley, and the original one too,” you arrange the snacks around the other things on the box.

“He runs sometimes at the facility too, there is a railing there to guide him through the court,” you look back to the camera, “he kind of likes it, and the art therapy sessions help a lot too, he spends as much time there as possible.”

You smile widely, lifting your hand with a finger pointing up, your eyes wide as if you remembered something. You run out of the frame, and when you come back, you are holding a clay rooster.

“I have a lot of sculptures that he made here at home, and this little guy,” you show to the camera, “was the first thing he made. Well…” you chuckle, “second one. The first one was me,” you smile widely, tossing your hair back playfully, giggling.

Still laughing, you look at the rosster in your hand, your big smile fading to a soft one, turning the sculpture in your hands, paying attention to the details, running your fingers over the marks of the instrument he used to shape the clay into the rooster, the curves and prints of his finger and fingertips in the dried clay.

“Even seeing him only once a week for the past year, I still feel him close to me because of those works of art he always gives to me when I go see him,” you look to the camera, grinning now.

You place the roaster on the table beside you, facing the camera. You pat its head, giggling lightly, then turn back to the cardboard box, almost finishing the little unboxing.

“Just like his medical products, I take deodorant to him too,” you show to the camera and put it in the toiletry bag you used before. 

“I don't give him shaving lotion because he likes it when I shave him,” you smile sweetly, pulling from the box a razor and a shaving lotion, showing them to the camera. “So I just take them there to do it myself,” you chuckle, putting them in the bag too.

“At the beginning, I cut him a couple of times. He always acted like it didn't hurt, but I could see how hard he fisted his hands on his pants.”

You smile fondly at the memory, chuckling a little to yourself, “and now, just because he is always such a good boy…” You take a lingerie out of the box, giggling and blushing hard. You show for just a couple of seconds, and then you're already tucking it into the plastic bag.

“Before you say anything,” you point to the camera, laughing still, red still as well, “I didn’t use it, okay? Since we can’t have an intimate visit, we don’t…” 

You mumble, trying to find a good word, chuckling embarrassingly, blushing even more, “get any kind of intimacy for a little more than a year, so this,” you point to the box, inticanting your panties, “is because of it, and of course, because since he can’t see, it’s also a way to feel me, you know?”

You hear a honk outside of your house, beep beep, making you snap your head towards your door. You turn to the camera while closing the plastic box, now full and done, “Well, I guess this is my lead to go,” you smile, waving to the camera.

“Thanks for the attention, everyone. Now, excuse me, I have a sweet lady and a gorgeous man waiting for me! Byeeee!” You blow a kiss to the camera, reaching for your phone just after bending over the table to turn the camera off recording.

You grab it and tuck it into your back pocket of your pants. You grab the plastic box with both hands and head to your front door, placing a Tupperware container with cookies on top to give to Dot.

It might be the first anniversary, but it also means that it is one less year of him in jail, one less year of him away from you. Just a few more months, hopefully, and you and he will be together again until the end of time.