The practice of leaving

Move, 1994.

I ran away, once. Got as far as Greenwood Market before indecision slowed me and I pulled into the parking lot. Out of habit I brought up a mental image of the fridge and opened it: We were out of milk, so I should go inside. Then I cursed myself for the dutifulness of thinking to replenish my family's staples even as I ran away from it.

I put my head down on the steering wheel and listened to the soft rain shush against the windshield. Outside, the parking lot was dark but for the rain puddles that reflected neon, a stray shopping cart and now my car under a street lamp. Inside, shadows lapped at a water bottle while dingy yellow light lent unexplainable import to a crumpled paper airplane. The anger that drove me out the door and disrupted the night's routine had evaporated, leaving me tired, so tired. I climbed into the back seat and settled onto the bench.

I can't run away, not for good anyway, because I'm needed, valued, worth a life insurance policy, but I can run far if they'll let the line run slack. Will you come back? they ask. Yes, but you need to let me go so I can come back. They hug me. The youngest cries because he doesn't understand why he's not going, why they're all not going. My husband ignores the histrionics, so routine by now. I bent down for a final kiss, then pushed past them and opened the door. I hope you feel better, Mom.

I'm gone.

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