Losing a parent while you’re in prison is hard the first time. It’s devastating when it happens a second time.
On the way to take a shower after working out, I decided to stop and check Jpay (the prison email service) to see if I had any emails. I was feeling good because I had one from my daughter’s mother. It read:
“Hey there, hope all is well. Can you give Jas a call?”
Jas is my daughter. I call her every day, so I knew immediately that someone had died. In my heart I knew it was my father because the day before my sister had informed me, he was in the hospital. I didn’t call Jas. I called my sister. My heart was pounding as I waited on Sis to answer my call. She answered on the third ring as if excepting my call. ” What’s up bro? He died last night!” I went numb as I heard Sis confirm my fears.
Hearing those words triggered the painful memory of when I received the news my mother had died almost twelve years earlier. That phone call was now playing in my mind too.
It was July 9, 2011. I was in a level four prison, Oaks Correctional Facility in Manistee, Michigan. It was evening time, the sun was shining bright as I made my to the yard to use the phone. I dialed my mother’s number and after three rings my brother’s fiancée answered the phone. I knew something was wrong. She passed the phone to my brother.
I said, “What’s up Bro?”
He replied, “It’s all bad bro! She gone!” I dropped the phone and fell to the ground in tears.
Now here I am twelve years later numb from the pain of losing pops and reliving the devastation of losing my mother. Although, I finished the 15-minute conversation it was all a blur. All I knew was I had to endure the pain of another death. On top of that I had to write some words to go in the obituary. After the call I went back to my cube. I laid in my bunk and thought about what this meant. I thought about the pain I was feeling. Me and pops didn’t always have the best relationship and because of that I didn’t expect it to hurt like this. As hurt as I was, I couldn’t cry. Not because I didn’t want to but because I was numb.
That morning I took the longest shower. I found myself reflecting on me and Pops journey. I was also dreading not being there for my sister. Despite the rocky relationship she had with Pops she was a Daddy’s Girl at heart. I knew after the numbness wore off, she would be more hurt than I was. I played my bunk for the rest of the day listening to music. Music is therapy for my soul.
Over the next few days the condolences came pouring in. Losing a family member, especially a parent while you’re in prison is pretty common. The numbness wore off and the pain began to really to set in as I came to the realization that both of my parents were gone. I still had to come up with the words for the obituary. It was challenging to say the least. However, the words came to my heart in the darkness of late night.
I grabbed my tablet and began to write.
“Dear Pops,
In my heart I knew this day was coming and as much as I tried to prepare myself, I’m still struggling to accept the fact that you have returned to the essence. If I’m being honest with myself, that’s just me being selfish and wanting more time with my father. Our journey has been arduous, and you didn’t always get being a father right. But, when I needed my father the most you showed up. It was in that moment that my love and respect for you as a man and a father grew. I want to take this time to thank you.
I’m forever grateful for all the jewels you gave me to help me navigate life. Some of your greatest jewels were giving to me in the games of one-on-one basketball we played. I remember you couldn’t beat me, but you didn’t let me win either. No losses just lessons right? As much as it hurts right now, I find peace in knowing that you are no longer suffering. Death is the hardest part of life but it’s not the end. It’s simply a transference of energy. When your energy reconnects with grandma, Gwen, and momma tell them I love them. You can rest now but know that you will live forever because you’re in my mind and my heart. I’ll reconnect with you when my journey is up. Until then know that I love you! It’s been real pops. Rest in Peace King!”
Writing the words for the obituary was very emotional and it took a lot out of me. When I was finished, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, I sent my words to my sister via Jpay. My father’s funeral was to be held on a Saturday. Unfortunately, the environment I’m in doesn’t allow me the proper space to really grieve so the days leading up to funeral I had to find moments in which I could grab some solitude and process my thoughts and feelings. I found myself staying up to the wee hours of the night where I could be alone and hide my pain. The one thing I learned from experiencing my mother’s death is to be mindful of how my pain manifests itself. Outside of my close friends and family, I stayed to myself leading up to the service.
Finally, the day arrived to send my father home. It hurt I couldn’t be there. The reality of me not being able to see my mother or my father off was a pain that I will carry until the day comes that I can say a proper goodbye. During the time of the service, I decided to walk around the track on the big yard and listen to music. My go to song in painful times like this is “I Smile” by Kirk Franklin. I put it on repeat and tried to walk away my pain. As I walk the track the reality really started to set in and all I was thinking is I hope he knew I loved him. We didn’t have the best relationship but at the time my pops passed, I could honestly say he was my guy. After walking for a couple of hours I went to back to the unit to call my sister.
My sister answered the phone in good spirits considering the circumstances. I could tell she was happy for the finality the service would bring. She was under a lot of stress because she had to make all the arrangements by herself. We talked for a minute, and she passed the phone around. I spoke to my daughter, my favorite cousin Taiwan, my auntie Leola, and my stepmother (my sister’s mom). It was good to hear all of their voices and to hear the service went well. I decide to chill for the rest of the day.
I woke up Sunday morning feeling sad. It was the first Father’s Day I didn’t have my father. In that moment the joy of being a father was trumped by the pain of my lost. I got out of my bunk performed my daily meditation and headed to the shower. When I entered the bathroom, I noticed the third shower was open. Our unit has three single man showers. I got in the shower and started reflecting on my life. In that moment I felt the weight of 43 years of trauma and pain. I relived my mother’s death. I relived my grandmother’s death. I relived my brother’s death. The pain was consuming my body and tears began to flow like Niagara Falls. My knees got weak and I put both hands on the wall to brace myself from collapsing. Hidden away in the confines of a prison shower I released years of pain. The hot water felt like it was purifying my soul. After about an hour of crying I turned off the water, dried off, and left the shower to resume living death by incarceration.
Death is a part of life. It’s the hardest part of life. It’s even harder when one experiences it while enduring death by incarceration. I’ve lost my mother, my father, my grandmother, my stepmother, my brother, two aunties, two uncles, and many childhood friends. The sad part is this environment is not conducive to properly grieving so I’ve had to suppress my feelings and just keep it pushing. What hurts me even more is I’m on my way home after twenty-four plus years and when I get there my mother or father will not be there to greet me. This is the harsh reality of serving death by incarceration.
Quentin Jones #302373
Lakeland Correctional Facility
141 First St.
Lakeland, MI 49036
Or Jpay.com:
Quentin Jones #302373
Michigan Dept. of Corrections
