A Piece of Home in Prison

Analiz González

The 50-some-year-old woman performing songs with the other prisoners was barely noticeable.

But Laura Gomez* said she'd never forget me. And she cried. She hugged me and cried—said I reminded her of home.

"She's from Matamoros," her singing instructor said, pointing to me. She jumped when she heard this. Her hands flew to cover her mouth.

"I'm not technically from Matamoros," I explained. "I'm from its bordering city on the Texas side, but I was always in Matamoros as a child, all my extended family lived there."

That was close enough for her. She said she's been in prison for seven years. I don't know why she got the sentence, but she wasn't able to see her children grow up. They've never visited.

"My husband said he'd never bring them," Laura told me, adding that she was OK with that. "It's ugly here. I just asked him to take good care of them.'"

Laura will be in this grey-painted prison for 22 more years, they told me. She'll age in there. No freedom. No outings. No television. She can't even look out the window to see the city—all windows face inside.

She's got God, though. She was converted in prison a few years back when her music instructor, Jorge Quezada, from Iglesia Bautista Horeb, told her about Jesus. And she said she's glad, that although she's trapped in prison, her soul is free.

"I'm so glad you came," she said. "I feel like God sent you in here for me, to bring me a little piece of home."

I told her I'd be in Matamoros for Christmas and that I'd think of her while I was there.

"I'll think of you at Christmas, too," she said. "Always. And say hello to our city for me."

"I will," I told her and thought of Matamoros. It had never seemed so beautiful.

*Laura Gomez is not her real name