Sitting on my porch steps. My paisley suitcase full of necessary treasures. A doll. Patten leather clogs. A red turtleneck. A music box. I waited for the years to pass, to grow me old enough to cross the street alone.
She comes outside. No other thing as beautiful as her. Unearthly need stretches through me and tries to move my fingers forward in apology, but I have always had stubborn fingers. Like his.
"When you are through running away, there are plums on the kitchen table." She swept her hand across my angry face and I could smell the cigarette that lingered lovely there.
I want to be anywhere else all of the time. And no one has done me any harm. And nothing has been taken from me unfairly. My escapist nature is an inner need to never feel.
I inherited it from him.
There is only so much we can love before we have to leave.