Living with another person is hard on its own, let alone in prison. We have to consider someone else’s habits whether we like them or not. Me, I’m a morning person. I don’t mind being woken up and I love going to sleep because it means I get to get up again, love my mornings. But my cellie, not so much.
Every morning I get up, make a cup of coffee, watch the news, catch up on letters, read a few pages, and get ready for my day. I value that time of pseudo-solitude. But I do things quietly so as to respect my cellmates choice of not liking the mornings as much as I. Like a ninja I crabwalk across my bunk to the ladder that his head sleeps one foot away from under me so I don’t make shuffling noises. Ever so carefully I put one foot on the middle of the ladder and expertly descend, quietly. Then…
My knee cracks as I touch the ground with a thunderous “CRACK” then my ankle “SNAP” then my hip ticks into place with my first step, then my elbow pops as I reach for the sink handle. Then my cellie stirs and turns.
I may be a ninja, but I’m a ninja with aging joints…shit.
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