Free Dogwood by Chris Fabry

crossing squares off a calendar. I have an internal sense that things are changing. Soon I’ll have paid my debt, and other than my mother, there’s only one person I know I have to see.
    You’re going to be a great mom to your children when that time comes, I had written Karin in the first week. Whoever marries you is going to be the most fortunate man on the face of the earth, and I can only hope that you’ll wait for me. I’ll understand if you don’t feel the same way. I release you from any promise you’ve made, any unspoken desire, anything said in haste or in an unguarded moment. It sounds trite, but I will truly be happy if you find happiness. If you decide to wait for me, my joy will be doubled. If not, I’ll still pray your husband treats you with gentleness and respect and will always realize that you are a treasure.
    My face burned when I thought of her reading those words. I wanted to crumple the paper and write something else, something about her counting the days until I was free. But that wouldn’t be fair to either of us, and I knew, like with the farm kittens I held as a child, the more you cling to an animal, the more it wants its freedom. I have claw marks in my memory to prove that.
    So I released her. Not as a calculated plot or ploy, not because it was the only way to get her to return, but because it was my true heart’s desire that she be happy, fulfilled, and loved.
    I reached an understanding there on that bed, listening to the sounds of men in the night. Like a burning campfire, I was either in or out. I would be either her passionate lover or nothing. I could not settle for some platonic friendship that danced at the edge of the truth. If I had to love her from a distance, I would. But if she allowed me in, I would love her wholly, with every fiber.
    I clung to a dream—a vision of Karin, wind flying through her hair, her pale, freckled face upturned to the moonlight. Deep in the still West Virginia night, with the crickets chirping and fireflies rising from the earth, beacons to a new season of life, one night came back to me when we had been close.
    She had unlocked a door and defenses had fallen. Maybe because she was so vulnerable and fragile? Whatever the reason, I held on to it as if it were life itself. Her laughter, her voice singing along with the radio, songs I would always associate with her, the hum of tires, the rush of wind, a touch. Lips pressing. Eyes closed. The soft hint of wine on her breath. The smallness of her back and shoulders—I had never known anything could feel so delicate, so alive.
    My dream, my vision, ended there. I never received a reply to the letters. They dropped into a void, a bottomless pit, and never returned. Writing those letters was my first act of release, the first of many, ridding myself of the feelings and passion. It was my first act of love toward her. I hoped it would not be my last.

K arin
    Palms sweating, I walked behind Ruthie through the metal detector. She had to put her cane through the machine and hold on to the sides. The machine beeped, and the guard made her go through again. When the alarm didn’t stop, he used the wand and centered on a spot at Ruthie’s side near her waist.
    “You have anything under your dress, ma’am?” the guard said.
    Ruthie had an attitude, and I was concerned she might say something we’d both regret.
    She gave me a playful look, which was not a good sign. She looked straight at the guard and said, “I had my hip replaced a few years ago, young man. My doctor said there’s a good chance it would drive security people crazy if I ever started traveling. Guess he didn’t take prison into account.”
    “I’m going to need to frisk you, ma’am, just to be sure.” The guard said it apologetically, like it was something he really didn’t want to do.
    Ruthie held up her arms, and soon we were both through.
    “Do you need a wheelchair, ma’am?” the guard said.
    “I’ll let my feet do the