Other essays on this theme

Essay: "The View from My Cell"

by J.R. Sollars
Over the years the view of my confinement has improved dramatically. Once, my only view was the stained, multicolored wall covered by the philosophical graffiti of past residents. Then came my arrival to a new prison unit. The view here, also of isolation, was the various shapes formed by the cracked and peeling white paint. Never mind trying to see out of the narrow slit of a window a few inches from the ceiling on the outside wall. Standing on my bunk, I could almost see out of it if I craned my head at a sharp ninety degree angle. But even if I did this, it was impossible to pierce the weathered stained milk frosted glass. Now, years later, I almost have a Rembrandt portrait of color.

Two windows give me a narrow vision of the eastern edge of the march pond. It is here I find what little hope the world beyond iron, stone and concertina wire offers. I watch year after year. The pond floods a few months, then it dries up. But there is always life upon this picture. Egrets, flamingos and cranes amble about slowly in search of prey. I can’t see their prizes when they bob their heads but it makes no difference.

The wildlife of the marsh, those cranes, gulls and ducks are truly perfect creatures. The co-exist without prejudice or self-opinion. They each tend to the one thing that is important, the necessities of life: food and habitat.

Hurricane Ike’s storm surge almost devastated the fresh water marsh. For months the thick deep grass remained a putrid grey. The birds remained loyal to the marsh, their white and red plumage the only color upon the blue. It’s been almost six months now. The grass is turning green again but the trees are still dead.

The strangest aspect is in how this marsh pond can change its image by the hour. In the calm morning hours it is black and lifeless until the waterfowl begin to move around. As the morning progresses, the fluid surface turns to a steel grey. When the sun peaks over the horizon, it turns silvery, reflecting the sky sometimes. Some days the wind ripples the surface gently, making the reflection of the far side wave gently. On windy days the liquid surface roils with its own life. It’s not much of a view, but it’s mine. And in it I find comfort that I can live at peace among the animals.