sort of a grim night at the prison last night.

an inmate in the other housing unit in my building had to be taken to the infirmary. he was hemmhoraging, stomach distended, in extreme pain. he has hepatitus C.

(this is what my mom died of, & pretty much how she went, after a week in the hospital hooked up to a science-fiction nightmare of machines)

I & another officer had to clear all of his property out of his cell.

he'd been in the cell for years, & didn't appear to have moved around very much.

there was a pair of glasses by the bed that looked like one of those undersea photos of something encrusted with barnacles.

it was dust. there was a thick layer of dust over everything, even the bed.

we pulled the photos & papers that he'd taped to the walls & the squares shone bright white surrounded by nicotine yellow.

I'd seen him maybe 2 dozen times when I'd gone around to count the unit when they were short of officers & he was always sitting bolt upright in bed, reading, smoking.

I thought about going thru mom's things after she died. I thought, inevitably, about what sort of an impression MY things would give--to whomever had to set things straight & clean up the mess.

ah, mortality.

(when the nurse came around for pill call later in the night I asked how he was doing--she said much better & he was expected to pull thru)

I'm glad that I have this job, I'm glad that I've done this job--I'm just not sure I want to KEEP this job.