The following piece, written by Sherren Moore, won first place in the inaugural Voices Beyond the Walls writing contest, presented by the National Religious Campaign Against Torture’s National Network of Solitary Survivors in collaboration with Solitary Watch. As NRCAT notes: “The contest aims to uplift the lived experiences, resilience, and advocacy of individuals affected by solitary confinement. Participants from across the country submitted original pieces that showcased their experiences, demonstrated their ability to create beautiful and powerful art out of adversity, and ultimately exposed the inhumanity of this practice.” More information about NRCAT can be found here.

“My heart goes out to the men and women on both side sides of the wall,” Moore wrote of her work. “We are all doing this time together, and nothing about it is easy for either side. My short story reflects on how it feels and what life is like when you have a loved one in lockdown. My prayers go out to you all! Thank you for reading my story.”

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I left the porch light on the first night he was gone out of habit, not hope. It stayed on ’til sunrise, and I never turned it off. It just became another line on the energy bill.

They say prison happens inside walls. That’s half true. The other half happens out here, in kitchens and at the DMV, where there are no bars but plenty still locks.

The judge said, “Twenty-four months” like a forecast. My husband stood in orange and nodded. I sat in the second row at Saline County with my purse in a death grip. Michael, 19, trying to look like a man. June, 16, trying not to cry. The bailiff led him out.

He looked back.

I drove home alone. The truck smelled like his Copenhagen and pine air freshener. I left the windows up to keep it.

The first month was paper. A Ziploc with his wallet, belt, wedding ring. I wore the ring on a chain three weeks until the clasp broke. Then it lived in the change dish.

Calls started the second Tuesday. Varner pod gets phones from 9:00 to 9:30 a.m.. Ours was 9:17 a.m. I learned to be at the counter by 9:14 a.m., kettle quiet. The first time, I tried to tell him everything—Tahoe transmission, feed prices, June’s honor roll, how my teeth hurt from missing him. The voice cut us at 15 minutes.

By week three I knew the rules they don’t print. Don’t talk about legal cases. Don’t name inmates. Put money on Friday for Saturday canteen. Write his number on everything.

The first visit was worse than sentencing. Two hours down Highway 35, the line of women with clear bags, a CO calling me honey while she patted me down. He came out thinner, smiled with his eyes first. Three seconds to hug. We held hands over a bolted table.

Coffee was $1.50 and tasted like regret. June wore his Carhartt in August. On the way home she said, “He looks tired, Mama.” I said, “Yeah, baby.” She never went back.

Bauxite did what towns do. Casseroles. Funeral-voice questions at Harps. My supervisor at the dental office, 11 years on the desk, said they needed “more availability until things settle.” I took nights at Love’s off I-30. Ten to six. Truckers called me darlin’ and never asked why my eyes were red. It paid less, but I was home for June’s bus. Michael started at the plant and quietly paid the water bill.

Money stretched. Sixty for commissary. Forty for gas to Varner. Two hundred to the lawyer. I shopped with the calculator open. I fixed the kitchen faucet myself at 1 a.m. after my shift, watching YouTube under the sink. When the drip stopped I cried on the linoleum, mad he wasn’t there to do it.

The house got quiet in a bad way. I slept in the middle, then diagonally, because the empty side felt like an accusation. I left the TV on for company.

Holidays hurt. Thanksgiving we set his plate. June asked me not to again. Christmas we took a photo by the painted tree in visitation. He held a paper candy cane. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. I keep it in my Bible.

The calls became our marriage. Tuesdays and Thursdays at 9:17 a.m. “I’m good” meant I’m not. “Tell me something normal” meant tell me about tomatoes, not concrete.

Month eight we fought. He’d lost rec time and said, “It’s easier in here. I don’t have to decide nothing.” I was still in my shoes after a double and snapped, “Well it’s not easier out here.” The line cut. He missed Tuesday. I stared at the phone till 9:31 a.m. Thursday we both said sorry first.

In the middle year I quit waiting for my old life. I started the medical billing certificate at UA Pulaski Tech so Love’s would give me days. I planted tomatoes. I walked the middle school track with Carla from the visitation line—her husband’s at Cummins for ten years. We talk canning, not trauma.

June got her license. Michael moved to Benton but brings laundry Sundays to check on me.

Therapy in Bryant was 20 bucks. The counselor asked what I felt guilty about. I said laughing at Michael’s meme while my husband sat in a cell, and getting good at being alone. She said guilt is love trying to be loyal to two truths at once. I wrote it down.

He knows our fridge hum from the phone. I know his dorm names. We stopped pretending 15 minutes is enough. We just tell the truth. The last six months are the longest. Parole packet, home plan, letters from the lumberyard. I cleaned his closet three times. Left his boots. Bought new sheets.

Am I excited? Yes. Terrified, too. He’s learned noise and orders. I’ve learned to decide alone and like quiet. What if we don’t fit?

Carla said, “You ain’t getting the same man back, and he ain’t getting the same woman. That’s not bad if you both come home honest.”

He gets out November 12—twenty-two months with good time and welding class. I circled it, then stopped crossing off days.

Last visit he looked clearer. He’s nervous about driving and self-checkout. I’m nervous about sharing the bathroom. We laughed—first real one in two years.

He asked about the porch light. “You don’t have to leave it on,” he said. “I know,” I said. “I want to.”

Love out here isn’t waiting. It’s paying the light bill. Mowing. Raising kids who are angry at their daddy and proud he finished class. Being capable and still wanting to be held. Prison doesn’t stop life. It narrows it. You learn who stays. You learn 15 minutes can hold a marriage if you don’t waste it.

On November 12, I’ll leave Bauxite at five with coffee and his clothes in a Walmart bag. They’ll call his name at Varner. He’ll walk out squinting.

I’ll drive us home down 35. The porch light will be on at ten in the morning. He’ll know what it means: Somebody lives here. Somebody was expected. The house kept going. So did I.

That night I’ll turn the porch light off for the first time in two years. Not because I’m done waiting, but because he’s home. We’ll leave the kitchen light on low. And we’ll learn, slow, how to sleep in the same bed again—probably diagonally at first—until we remember how to fit.