This was 1941 and I'd been in prison eleven years. I was thirty-five. I'd spent the best years of my life either in a cell or in a black-hole. I'd only had seven months of total freedom with my Indian tribe. The children my Indian wives must have had by me would be eight years old now. How terrible! How quickly the time had flashed by! But a backward glance showed all these hours and minutes studding my calvary as terribly long, and each one of them hard to bear.
In 1941, the narrator reflects on his eleven years of imprisonment, emphasizing his age of thirty-five and the loss of his best years spent confined within a cell or isolation. Despite having only enjoyed seven months of freedom with his Indian tribe, he feels a deep sense of regret for the family life he missed, thinking about the children he might have fathered who would now be eight years old.
This...
