After  living  in  a  town  of  three  hundred  people  with a glass factory sitting on the  Ottauquechee  River,  I say,  Roll up the window.  And I roll out a hot dough  of  semi-liquid  glass  with  a  wooden  pin—flatten it into something you could climb out of into freedom  (wherever that is).  Or  at least have a view  of  freedom until your release.  After we  gave  enough  information  to the  guard  at  the security checkpoint, we entered the prison grounds. Galaxies away from here,  aliens  have  the  technology  to  zoom in on the high  definition  of  human  suffering.  That  day,  the last day I saw you living, Dad wore his  Big Boy  to the prison,  same  as  when he’d stand on the sidelines  at  our  soccer  games  in  late  autumn.  Dad still calls  his  heaviest winter jacket in the hall closet his Big Boy.  It  feels  better to imagine he has the  strength  of  more  than one person wrapped around his shoulders. Years ago,  we  took turns climbing onto Dad’s back at Cape Canaveral—our very own  human  space  shuttle.  I  was  young  enough  to  sit  on  his  shoulders, but  you  took  up the space of a portable life  support  system  on an astronaut’s back. Even then, we knew how special it was that our African American  father  had  something  to  do  with  sending  shuttles  into  outer space,  rovers  to  distant  planets—that  particular  time,  the  Delta 230  Rocket that  carried  the  X-Ray  Timing Explorer  (XTE)—a satellite.  The  worst happens, and we backpedal into memory—when we believed anything was possible and everything grew on neutral territory. I tried to stop the car anywhere  but  the  prison  where  the   Maryland  Division  of  Corrections had occupied your name, Ray-Ray, with an inmate number. Sandwiched between the Banana River and the Río de Ais, space exploration to “new worlds”  launches  from  on  top  of  the  sacred  shell  mounds  of  the  Ais. There   isn’t   a  place  I  could  stand  to  make  your  death  in  custody dislodge itself from hard-pressed, geologic layers of relational violence. Somewhere,  elsewhere  perhaps,  in  a  semi-distant  future  off  world.  I bet we’ll  both  be  grown  enough  to  wear  the  Big  Boy.  Maybe we won’t need it.