Memory

My brother is home (HALLELUJIAH). He's been gone for far too long. He's only home briefly before he re-deploys but I'll take what little time we have.

Being around him, we naturally turn to reminiscing. Old memories fly up and take us back to years ago when we bickered, laughed and slept in the complete contentment that was an all too brief childhood:

When I was five and he was six we planned our getaway. Our parents were upstairs with their friends eating dinner and all us kids were in the basement, feeling terribly neglected. We sketched in crayon how we would escape.

Needed: one bike, one red wagon, a box of granola bars, some toothbrushes (dental hygiene is of the utmost when running away), some extra clothes, a blanket and a flashlight.

We would leave through the back door, slinking around the side of the house and into the garage to gather our supplies. We would make our way across the front yard and into the cornfield that surrounded our house. Once under the cover of darkness, and tall stalks we would make a run for it, leaving behind the unfair parents who just didn't understand us.

The drawing was beautiful, all colors of the rainbow and very detailed; our crayons worn down to nubs. The last thing I remember from that night is putting my head down on the tiny, plastic counter of my Fisher-Price kitchen and falling asleep.

Sometimes running away is just too much work.