By Paul Kidwell

It was Christmas night and she seemed just a bit out of place standing out in the cold all by herself. The warmth of the day had given into cool temperatures and colder rain showers, and the thin nylon jacket she was wearing provided little warmth against the advancing chill. My family and I were returning home to Dorchester after dropping off my mother-in-law at her home in the South End. It was the end of another memorable Christmas day, and as I made my way onto the access road that leads to the Southeast Expressway near the South Bay shopping center, I noticed her. She seemed all of 13, was standing outside the exterior wall of what appears to be a correction center, and was looking up into one of the barred windows. The shadowy figure - perhaps her father? - that appeared in the prison's window and who was the center of her attention at that moment must be someone of great importance to her in order for her to stand in the middle of winter's chill and endure Boston's evening damp. As I passed her, I looked at her fading figure in my rearview mirror and it then struck me that it was Christmas night and most kids her age were probably at home with their families, basking in the aftermath of a splendid meal and day spent opening presents and sharing another precious holiday with loved ones.

The sight of her out there alone overwhelmed me with sadness. Sad because she was spending her Christmas amidst frigid rain drops standing outside a jail trying to catch a glimpse of someone special, instead of reveling in the richness of this family holiday. Sad also for the jailed person who, if he has a conscience at all, must die a thousand deaths each time he sees his child standing alone outside his prison home, braving the elements in order to see his faint figure for a brief moment. Sadder still for the all the other young children who fear the calendar's passing days and the hollowness that those special days bring as they celebrate birthdays, graduations, first dates, and other notable times without a parent. Time is said to heal all wounds. Sometimes it's the wounds of time that hurt the most.

Having come from a different time and place I have no personal barometer with which to measure how a young person lives with the humiliation of a parent's incarceration, but I recognize it as a cruel reality of a society where the police blotter leads the evening news. Despite police commission reports to the contrary, crime and imprisonment are as real today as they have always been. Nor do I understand the criminal mind that, at some point switches off enough reason and logic that makes committing a crime possible. It's no secret that the prisons throughout this country are overloaded with young adults, many of whom are parents and who leave behind sons and daughters when they go to jail. At its worst, a crime is egotistical and foolhardy. Each time someone selfishly pulls the trigger, steals a car, or breaks the law in some fashion, the victims of their crimes stretch beyond the crime scene and trial court.

Among the casualties also found in the criminal's wake &endash; and perhaps the most forgotten - are the unseen family members he unmercifully leaves behind, particularly his children. They don't feel the bullet nor are they part of any crime scene, but like the innocent young girl shivering outside that Boston jail, each one feels the constant pain of loss every year they must live without the love, care and support only a parent can give. Each year they wake up on Christmas morning knowing that they will be alone again this holiday. Theirs is a jail no one would ever understand. No, the walls are not concrete and the bars are not made of steel, but they are locked up nonetheless. Incarcerated by someone who would rather commit a crime than commit their life to this child whose only Christmas present this year will be a quick glance of an indistinct figure inside a dark jail cell.

Paul Kidwell lives in Dorchester, Lower Mills.