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I’ve been home just over 48 hours and I’m now wondering if last week happened. In between bouts of jetlagged induced narcolepsy memories of a hot, strange town an hour north of Houston drift through my mind. The execution capital of America whose residents barely notice when an execution takes place. The old bent over cowboys still swaggering through Café Texan. Terrie the receptionist who believes if, “They behave like dogs they should be put down like dogs”.

Being moved on by the perimeter patrol. The prison cemetery and our first motel, both of which felt like the setting for a horror film. Driving on the right but wrong side of the road without a clutch.

The lovely former Warden with a glint in his eye and perhaps a weight on his conscious. The protestor at the execution who wouldn’t shut up about the Royal Family even though a man was being put to death about a hundred meters from where we gathered. The gut wrenching sobs of the inmate’s children and the bell that rang 15 times for each year the inmate was on death row.

I’ve only ventured out once since I got back but when asked about my trip I’m finding it hard to tell people about it in any detail. I’m not sure if I have fully processed everything yet, it was very full on, or I’m not ready to part with the stories. I’m going to have to. I need to start writing today, if I can stay awake long enough.