Letting go is the hardest of things to do, losing is even worst. I remember when my 3 year old nephew came to visit me for the first and last time. We spent a few hours together, and every chance he got he gave me a hug. It felt wonderful to be around such beauty, such innocence, and careless joy. He wasn’t much talkative, but his presence alone said more than I could hope to hear. When the time came for he and his mother to leave, he grabbed my hands and started walking towards the front lobby’s door with me. I stopped at the expected spot. He stopped and looked at me. Without a word, he released his mother’s hand and came back to get me expecting me to walk out with him. My refusal to take another step with him let out tears, and my heart cried along with him. How I wish I could have left that place and taken him to Chucky Cheese, or Dandy Bear. He is now 17 years old, and my sister have not allowed any of her 2 children to visit me, as she doesn’t want them to think that being incarcerated is normal or expected. I understand her desire to break the cycle of expectations that have become all too common amongst African Americans. I don’t want my nephew growing up with the unspoken expectation of being incarcerated. I cringe to think how fathers feel when their toddlers grab their hands expecting them to walk out with them.