The World Weaves

 The World Weaves
©1/09/2026 Karla Johnston

I drive down Tahoe mountains,
into the valley of Nevada,
fully aware that with each mile, my heart closes.
His last offense was sexual assault.
My instinct is high alert.  

Security checkpoints completed,
His mother and I walk down an outside corridor
lined with snow-capped mountains
and blue sky against rolling barbed wire.

A Deaf man is with his lawyer, waiting.
When I appear, there are no formalities,
his hands cut right to the chase,
as I voice—his desperate request—
to remain in custody.

“It’s the meth. I don’t know what happens.
When I get out I can hold it together for about a week
and then, it consumes me!”

Dark eyes fill, and he swipes away tears between sentences,
eventually placing both palms entirely over his eyes
to stop the flow.
I experience the sudden silence,
how hard it is to stay,
a yearning for freedom
beyond prison walls.

Lawyer is silent and looks at me.
My eyes are locked on his client’s hands, waiting…

 “So, I have to be here. I asked to be here.”
My voice cracks with emotion.
 
A plan is discussed: to request treatment in his native language—
American Sign Language—at a rehab in Southern Nevada.
We’re hoping the State will pay.

I’m escorted to one side of a large hall to sit with his mother,
he sits at the far side and begins signing to her.
I speak his words into the mother’s ear
while looking over at the guard,
who smiles at me,
so I continue.

The doors to my heart open, open, open.
One hour with him and his mother is all it takes.
She is the living Rock of Gibraltar,
“God as your fortress,” type pep talk.
The woman is serious, with a voice like honey.
His eyes finally stop flowing.  

Eventually, man’s name is called.
The three of us get up,
converge at the meeting room door.
We enter and sit before the Board of Parole.
They express perplexity at his request
to be placed in custody.

They ask what he wants.
Again, the desperate plea.
Perhaps it’s the mother’s wringing hands,
sniffling  sounds from the Board,
or lack of dry eye in the place—
after a recess to compose ourselves,
a detained extension is granted.
Precious time to get into the Southern Nevada facility.

When I get out to my car, I’m exhausted,
What about the victim? I think.
Did we abandon her?

Before turning the key in the engine,
I sit for a moment,
and look at the mountains,
find the half-moon, low in the sky.
I realize I ran the gamut of emotions:
guarding my heart,  
then, jumping both feet in,
before coming to stabilize.
And, over the next few days,
I ran the gamut again.

Well over half of all people in custody
meet the criteria for substance abuse.
Where has society gone wrong?  

Victims’ burdens,
States’ burdens,
families’ burdens,
prisoners’ burdens,
my burden,
now—your burden.

The world weaves these sorrows
through you and me.
If we really look, if we really see—
what do we extend?
Hardness of heart,
Over-riding fear,  
Wise compassion,
Stability?