I go away

Talk about a time when you left home.

I am crouched in the tall weeds in a field across the street from my house.  I am small, maybe 7 or 8.  Old enough to be in school because it's after school now, in that lawless stretch of time between letting myself in the house and my parents' arrival home from work.  Usually my brother or a babysitter would be in charge but I've somehow evaded their notice.  To my left is a bright turquoise leatherette soft-sided suitcase, one I pulled from the family luggage stash in the laundry room.  I'm not sure of all its contents, in fact I'm pretty sure I didn't actually pack any clothes at all, just a few books and my beloved roller skates, white with red wheels, a pink stopper and a Strawberry Shortcake logo stenciled on top.  When I left I planned to be gone for a very, very long time (like forever) and so I brought not one but three bananas to sustain me on my journey.  I'm already nibbling on the second one as I pull the weeds aside with my chubby little hand and watch the house for signs that someone has noticed my absence.  The minutes tick by with agonizing slowness as the cold damp from the ground begins to soak the knees of my corduroys.  The house is quiet, no signs of life.  No one searching, no one calling my name.  No one even peering through the blinds to see if I'm outside.  I think about waiting for my parents to get home, for them to notice I'm gone.  I think about the goosebumps on my arms and the one banana I have left.  I finger its bright yellow peel, idly wondering if eating three bananas in one afternoon would make me sick.  Instead I shove it into the blue bag and stand up, brushing weedy buds from my pant legs.  I trudge back across the street, defeated.  When my parents get home it's as if nothing at all has happened.  I am the only one who knows the truth, that for a brief moment in time I didn't live there anymore.

This post is part of The Scintilla Project.