. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . P A R O L E . C A L L

(Returning to my blog after nearly a year hiatus. Still teaching, sometimes writing. Thanks for reading. I wrote this last year, just posting it now.)

Today I am sitting with one student. I am no longer at the rehab. My site lost its funding and my school relocated to this parole office where most of the students are required to attend or go back to jail. The student with me this morning wears a tie-dyed t-shirt. He has nine more hours to complete. Coming to my school is his get out of jail free card. He is a lifelong follower of the Grateful Dead, even post-Jerry Garcia. He grows and distributes medicinal marijuana, sampling his inventory, no doubt.  Parole agents found two grams of Ecstasy in his house. Why do I feel like I’m in San Francisco and it’s 1968? He just wants to be left alone. Parole and my program are of no consequence to him.

What’s that rustle at the sign-in sheet?

That is my only student leaving early.