When I was three and 1/2, I ran away from home. A horror story by my brothers probably the catalyst.
I used the “lunch box” that went with us on adventures to the shore, or fishing at the lake.
Packed my most important belongings: tiny teddy; sweater; fairy tale picture book ; and 1/2 a chocolate bar.
My bedroom was in the attic. The only space left for a girl with 5 older brothers.
Just before sunrise, I slipped downstairs avoiding the steps that creaked. I left a scrawly note: RuN aWy. not cam hom
Pulling the kitchen door silently behind me, I headed into the adjacent woods.
Mist whispered around the trees, and gently touched my hair. I wandered through an Impressionist painting-world.
How deep to go into the forest so no-one could trace/track me. To a child’s brain, the berry patch by the creek seemed far enough away. It took me several hours to get there.
My oldest brother got to my hideout faster than that. I was asleep in the sun-drenched bank. Purple juice smeared across my face, staining my dress where I tried to wipe my now purple hands.
Nothing was ever said about it. As if, I’d gone with a long walk with the lunch box.
Now, thirty years later, as I write these remembories, I still feel the urge, the need to run away, far, far away.
The old lunch box is up in the attic.