Open Air By Heather Domenicis

Sigfrid Lundberg CC



Open Air

           At first, open air visits: we’d meet my dad in a yard with picnic tables where you sit with your loved one, among other families visiting their loved ones––grandfathers, brothers, uncles, sons, nephews. There are ham and cheese sandwiches to eat with Lays and bottles of water to drink. The inmates wear their prison blues: blue jeans with a light blue shirt tucked in. I thought my dad was wearing normal clothes, but I didn't know why everyone matched. These visits were easy. Normal, almost. Like a picnic. 
            I don't even remember any fence keeping the inmates from walking into the free world.
 
            Visits at high security facilities were different, harder. Way up in the hills of California. My nana and I stopped at estate sales along the way, browsing the china, never buying a thing, just pretending that we weren't going where we were going. An attempt to make a dark day a little lighter. We pass lemon farms, drive down mountains and through valleys.
            Outside the jail, there's a grove of orange trees, like the one in our backyard. Inside, there's a metal detector. My nana lays her cane and her pocketbook on a conveyor belt. We slip off our shoes and pass through. Nana has trouble bending over, so she sits on a bench and I help her wiggle her foot back into her Easy Spirit sneaker. 
            Past prison security, everything becomes silver and shiny and massive. We make our way to the glass partitioned booths. In one of the booths, I see a little girl from my kindergarten class, who is also here visiting her father––a big man with a white beard like Santa Claus. He doesn't look like he belongs in prison; I wonder why he's here. I wonder why my dad’s here. That other girl and I were probably both wondering the same thing. Neither of us says hello, but we give each other small waves of acknowledgement. Two little girls and their secondhand shame. 
            My dad sits behind a wall of thick glass. He holds a black phone with a cord to his ear. He wears a plain blue button-down. We look at each other and he tries to form a smile, but his eyes are sad and teary. I want to smile, but this is scary. My nana hands me the phone to place on my ear as my dad presses his hand against the glass. Instinctually, I know to do the same. We sit there like that, silent, until we both say I miss you. 
            First my mom, and now him. She has been missing my whole little life. And he was missing for a very long time. I missed him so much. I wondered why I was like this––parent-less. What did I do? What had I done?
            I sit there watching my nana speak to him through the phone. Then, there’s a loud buzz, a voice on the intercom telling us visitation is over. We turn to leave, but I keep looking back. I keep looking back until the glass window is empty. Until another man comes and sits down where my dad just was. 
            They may as well have been the same person.

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Heather Domenicis (she/her) is an Upper Manhattan based writer and editor. She holds an MFA in Creative Non-Fiction from The New School, is a Best of the Net 2024 nominee, and her words appear in Hobart, JAKE, and [sub]liminal. Born in a jail, she is writing a memoir about all that comes with that. You can follow her on Instagram @13heatherlynn1.

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