written by Ivan
artwork by MV

I woke up this morning with the anxiety of a particular day that promises to be different from the others lived here in La Picota, a prison in Bogotá. They were six months of almost identical days, with that spirit of knowing that it is Sunday and the visit arrives with all those delights that, with so much love, mothers and wives prepared to bring their unfortunate men. Preparing the best clothing and shaving is the watchword very early, and then, a shower of water to the point of freezing the bones.

Clever. As impeccable as possible, I find myself in the courtyard, behind a yellow line that separates happiness from sadness, living that unreal moment of seeing our visitors enter. There are men who have never crossed that yellow line to receive visitors since they have been here. That depresses anyone.

Anxiety eats at me every minute, as I await the special arrival of my 2-year-old princess, whom I haven't seen since I've been in prison.

The eyes of these gentlemen light up when they see their relatives and in my case it is no exception. With joy and eyes so glassy to the point of tears, I hugged my daughter.

During these following hours we happily shared in the cell in the midst of comments with everyone, laughter and games with little Camila. This is how the day goes by until 3 in the afternoon, from the cell you hear that fateful cry of the discipline people, from the patio: “Last ones to visit”. With that subtle touch, they invite people to come out of cells and cambuches to say goodbye to visitors.

In the distance I send a last kiss to my wife and daughter, who are lost among the people rushed by the guard. The story is coming.

Just then it becomes a normal day again.