I remember the ferry ride across
the sea from Cape Town to Robben Island.
Air thick with anticipation.
A couple from Jordan cut the tension by
pushing people around to get better seats.
Self-appointed captains of an impromptu
game of musical chairs.
I remember the damp cold of
the cement prison corridors,
salty wet air on my cheeks,
listening to a former prisoner,
now a tour guide, talk about sleeping year-round
on a wafer-thin pad next to windows with no glass
and no way to shut out the
South African winter-soaked winds.
I remember reading Mandela’s autobiography
with his day-to-day log of prison life
and never realizing I’d actually stand at his cell,
touching the metal bars that caged him.
I never imagined that incredibly wise,
forgiving man, crumpled on the floor at night
like a pile of discarded clothes.
