Words Unseen: Writing a Friend in Jail

Bible Verses Filling the Void

I pay 25 cents to send her 500 characters every night before bed. I live in the denial that she’s somehow not seeing my messages. That “sent” does not mean “seen.” I try to rationalize the distance. We have been looking for her for years. It wasn’t always as pronounced, but we knew she was missing. There was no way to get in touch with her in these seasons. Burner phones and new cash apps became the norm. We knew there was no way to locate her, let alone speak to her. 

She has been in jail for five months now.  Her arrest was a sigh of relief as we all knew the possibility of death. I finally worked up the courage to write her. I didn’t know how to start the conversation. “How’s jail?” wouldn’t suffice. After a carefully constructed re-introduction, for but a moment, I felt like she was back. Her tone of voice was that of the sister I knew, even though it was just an instant message. 

She stopped responding two months ago. The reality of taking a plea of 3.5-7 years is a weight I can’t imagine carrying. I don’t know what unfolds in a women’s jail. Seeing my friend, who I’ve known and loved since third grade, become an addict has been one of the most devastating things I’ve experienced. Jail has become a distant relative over the years—coming and going, but often returning. Despite spending most of my evenings trying to understand, I still cannot fully grasp the horrors of prison.

I don’t know how to process losing a friend in this way or being blind to the signs. I genuinely believe I tried, but it was too late—she had already made her choice. It’s hard to accept the choices other people make. It’s hard to empathize with those who believe they have no options and choose something that doesn’t serve their best interest. A lot of us don’t know what it means to be desperate. I try my best to understand. She’s going to be sentenced today. After that, she’ll be transported to a women’s prison, and processing her number will take up to 60 days. No one will have contact with her. It feels like another cycle of loss.

I send her bible verses every night. She made me want to make God a friend. She demystified being holy and proper. She made me want to know God. I send her bible verses every night because I don’t know what else to say. What do people lean on when there’s nothing below their feet? Our faith is what we were taught to hold onto. In the last message she sent, she used her favorite lines, “delay don’t mean denial” followed by  “t the p, t the me” which we used to say a lot as struggling college roommates. I saw a glimpse of her before she disappeared. I know what it means not to hear from her when she’s on the run. I don’t know what it means not to hear from her when she has nowhere to go.

It’s selfish to feel she owes me a response. Deep down, I know she doesn’t. So I send her bible verses every night, hoping that one day she reads them and is reminded of who she is. 

Purvis Young: Untitled (Prisoners in Jail), c. 1996