They asked me to form a formal organization and gather the troops. Then they splash our names in the newspapers as though we were the offspring of Al Capone and take our pride. Any money a family can pool together goes to a lawyer. Now we are shamed and broke. The prison bars slam shut and every year we loose still more.
Wives give up and move on, children grow up and go on, but they are broken, too.
That's a tattered, destroyed group. Loving the prisoner is a hard road and it makes some so hard they break. We break and only some of us mend again. And so now we go, some the walking wounded, obviously living on borrowed time because we can't yet get through a day without depression that dogs a person powerless. Some of us live on the rage that boils inside of us, a rage at knowing that our government has betrayed us.