A record-breaking blizzard on Tuesday did not stop us from making our way through drifts of snow from the subway (no plowing in this part of Brooklyn) to the prison.  The unlovely neighborhood was transformed into a winter scene, but the wind whipping off the river cut through all our layers, to the bone. It was like Narnia, when the wicked queen put the land under a curse of intense winter.  And we weren’t passing through this wardrobe any time soon.  But when your life is cut off from your loved ones, from being outside in nature and the world; when it’s confined to gray metal walls (ok, there’s some tan too), with no break from the relentless monotony of sameness, day after day – a visit from your family takes on new significance.  A mere blizzard would not keep us from seeing Ross.  There was the usual verbal abuse at sign in and a bad moment when the security guard said my knit pants were sweat pants and I couldn’t go in.  (Not sure of the threat these pants presented, but you learn not to ask why).  However, with some pleading, he relented and “gave me a break,” for which we were thankful. Once in the visiting room, surrounded by chatting visitors and inmates, we waited at least an hour (which was unusual and unexplained).  We finally got to see Ross, although our visit was short because the wait cut into our precious time.  It was also very sad for all of us, as the grim reality of this nightmare sets in.  It is so strange to be with Ross, talk with him, hold his hand – yet not be able to just get up and leave with him.  The idea that he cannot have bail because he is a danger to anyone is so bizarre that it feels to me like punishment, not caution.