Devonne Brown

One could call my home a relaxation prison. I don’t go anywhere or do anything of consequence to anyone but me. I plant and water flowers and watch them flourish along forest paths. I write in solitude. I prepare and eat my meals in solitude. I do everything alone. My warden, Norris, demands his cream.

It is the price I pay for being a teacher, a summer off. I shall bear it out with dignity.

I believe I get the most joy from my garden this summer. The moss spotted clay paths lined with logs, sticks, and dotted with blossoms are my pride and joy. My bed of bloomers make me happy when I rock on my dilapidated porch, coffee or wine in hand, depending on my mood.

I am blocked off from my neighbors. I have privacy on all sides, a fence to my right, the house to the left, the forest surrounds it all. 

Even when my son takes my car, and goes his merry way, I choose to stay reclusive. Most of the time, I’d rather entertain myself than be in public for no apparent reason. Although I love spending time with friends and being with them, the occasion doesn’t present itself often enough to wreak havoc with my inner hermit. 

I’ll go back to school too soon and be socialized once more, though I’ll never feel ready for the anxiety that children and adults rain down upon me. Thank God for my sanctuary to return to. 

School wears me out. People wear me out. I’ve cultivated cats, flowers, dust bunnies, and words this summer. With a little more time, they and I will grow even more. My walls are not a prison, but a sanctuary with brilliant rainbows from the prism in the window splashed all over the room right this minute.