I found your birth certificate and added it to the envelope with the form. I’ll mail it to tomorrow, and it should be at the consulate in a few days. Hopefully, things get moving soon.
I filled out your paperwork; you’d left parts incomplete. Whether it was deliberate or not, I don’t know, but I refuse to fill it out the next time. It feels too much like you won’t acknowledge what happened. If you don’t fill it in, it didn’t happen. It happened.
I don’t need to look up the “important” dates, I know the date of your arrest. That morning is seared into my memory. It’s branded there. I feel like it should be branded into yours. If you need me to, I could describe what your photo looked like the day of your arrest. I’m not certain if it was a mugshot, or your inmate ID photo, but I remember how old you looked. I might not be able to give you the arresting officer’s name, but I can tell you what his voice sounded like and every word he said. It happened.
The same goes for the night I bailed you out. I remember your defeated look, and my dinner had no taste, while you added extra salt to yours because you hadn’t had salt in two weeks. I know the dates of your court appearances. If I thought hard enough, I could probably bring up the dates they transferred your case to superior court, or the date you surrendered your passport. It happened.
It happened, and I wish you could do more than just apologize,
And what the fuck. I need to open the paperwork again because I forget to write down your fucking case number.
