Dear Homes,

Hi, it's me, Curt. I don't know why I didn't think of writing this letter sooner. Life outside of prison seems to move a lot faster than it does inside of prison. It's been over a year since my release. Can you believe it? Remember when we had dish duty together? Those were the days. Those were the days you spoke and I listened to what you were speaking. And how much I learned! And how much you spoke! All the wisdom you imparted unto me and how you encouraged me to write. Rock and a hard place. That's where I was. I was so angry. I was so sad. You took away the rock, or the hard place, and I entered into another world, one in which all the rocks and hard places were supple mounds and soft slabs of butter! Butter, butter, butter!

So much has happened. And so little, too. I don't know if you would be proud, or disappointed with the progress I've made. It seems like progress is but a circular path. I hope I'm wrong. You would tell me that I was wrong. You would say, "Curt, even the planets do not travel the same path around the sun, and around and around they go. Around." And I would think about that in my cell, late at night, of the planets moving around and around the sun.

One thing I didn't expect, Homes, was to hurt so much once I'd left prison. That was silly of me, wasn't it? The death of Stella, my beautiful dog. My life coach, Rick, and former chess buddy, Bailey. The jobs I've had and lost and regained again. Warden. Regrette.

I miss you, Homes. But I know I won't be able to see you for a very long time. I hope you are teaching someone else, speaking, and I hope this someone is listening. Always listening and thinking about what was said in his prison cell, late at night, when it is quietest. I want to help people, Homes. I want to be a Homes outside of prison. A Curt.

What do you think about that?
I think you would say, "Curt, I think you understand. Turn on the faucet. Let the water run."

Best,
Curt G. Jimenez