As I sit here at the computer, it is 37 days since I last had a letter from my husband. We are separated by a geographical distance of some 5700 miles and an ocean, but that has never been much of an issue until now. We are separated by his crime, which put him at the bidding of his state officials and keeps him imprisoned: this has not been insurmountable. We are separated by culture: he from the American south and me from England; and in may ways that has kept us together as we continually discover new little quirks and turn of phrase that the other uses. We are separated by time, quite literally, as Texas is 6 hours behind the UK, though we each know what the other is probably doing at any given point in the day or night. But this separation of communication is a whole nother ball game.

We write, usually, every day. We don't get phone calls, so our letters are all we have between scarce visits. I mail something out every morning except Sundays and Holidays, and he writes over 2 or 3 days and mails out 2 or 3 times a week. This is purely because his circumstances dictate that he can only possess a maximum of 60 stamps at any time and can only purchase 30 at a time. He is not allowed to have the international postage stamps of 94c, so he must use at least 3 everyday stamps on each of his letters to me. It is a precarious equation: if he should miss his commissary day for any reason, he must wait another 2 weeks, and be more frugal with his letters. He could trade for a stamp, but it is against the rules and we have agreed that he needs to avoid breaking rules. He is not allowed to receive stamps through the mail, he may only purchase them from commissary. For most inmates this really wouldn't be a problem, because with 30 stamps one could write and send a letter every day inland. But I am not inland; I am separated by the ocean.

Generally, letters take between 6 and 14 days to get from him to me. The heavier the envelope, the longer it takes. It is strange to think of how many hands touch our letters between one of us writing it and the other opening the envelope and holding it in our own hands. Many people have commented on how they could not write a personal letter knowing that a stranger would be reading it before the intended recipient. But we do not let that separate us. In the 4 years, almost, that we have been living this way, there has been no subject not covered by our letters. They are our means of togetherness. Which is why this silence is so hard to bear.

I know, eventually, the silence will end. I know that in 4 weeks, letters or not, I will be with my husband again for our precious 8 hours. I know that there are too many reasons beyond our control that could have delayed his words to me for so long, to be angry with him. But as I sit here, on day 37 with no mail from him, the separation seems very real.

Learn more about this author, Silva Carver.
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