Runaway
“You are brave.”
Mama hugs you so tight the sensation is tattooed to your body. She tells you again: “You are brave.” You don’t believe her, but you nod, smile, hold back tears.
“Aunt Claudia will pick you up,” Mama says. “She’s set up a room for you—your own room.”
No more running.
Mama pushes you onto the train. It smells like damp towels, damp chairs, damp shoes.
The last time you were on a train, you were heading to Florida. The seats were made of leather, and stuck to every inch of your sweat-soaked skin. Mama sat next to you, gently stroked your hair. “This will be our new home,” she said.
Before Florida, it was a plane to Montréal. They handed out pretzels and hickory-smoked almonds. Mama sat next to you, gently stroked your hair. “This will be our new home,” she said. …show more content…
Never stopped. Slowed once, to have you. You, her everything.
Today, you are eleven.
You asked Mama where she’s going. “Paris,” she said. “Or Minnesota.” You wanted to go with her. “Not this time,” she said. Not anymore.
The train lurches forward. You see Mama waving. Soon, she becomes a spot, then a speck, then a memory.
Mama said Aunt Claudia is nice. She’s not really your aunt, but Mama said she’s the closest to family you have.
You asked Mama why she isn’t coming with you. “Because,” she said, “it’s better this way.” Better for who? you wonder.
Maybe Aunt Claudia will let you put up posters in the room—your room. You’ve never stayed in one place long enough to bother.
The ride is bumpy. Your body slides around in the seat. You try to ignore the dampness, try to drift to sleep. You wish Mama were here.
Days later, or maybe just hours, the train heaves to a stop. You step out. Vancouver grumbles a reluctant welcome.
The rain pounds daggers into your skin. The wind strokes your hair, threatens to rip it from your scalp.
Mama never told you what Aunt Claudia looks like.
All around you . . . faces, strangers, grey.
You wonder how far Paris is.
You
“You are brave.”
Mama hugs you so tight the sensation is tattooed to your body. She tells you again: “You are brave.” You don’t believe her, but you nod, smile, hold back tears.
“Aunt Claudia will pick you up,” Mama says. “She’s set up a room for you—your own room.”
No more running.
Mama pushes you onto the train. It smells like damp towels, damp chairs, damp shoes.
The last time you were on a train, you were heading to Florida. The seats were made of leather, and stuck to every inch of your sweat-soaked skin. Mama sat next to you, gently stroked your hair. “This will be our new home,” she said.
Before Florida, it was a plane to Montréal. They handed out pretzels and hickory-smoked almonds. Mama sat next to you, gently stroked your hair. “This will be our new home,” she said. …show more content…
Never stopped. Slowed once, to have you. You, her everything.
Today, you are eleven.
You asked Mama where she’s going. “Paris,” she said. “Or Minnesota.” You wanted to go with her. “Not this time,” she said. Not anymore.
The train lurches forward. You see Mama waving. Soon, she becomes a spot, then a speck, then a memory.
Mama said Aunt Claudia is nice. She’s not really your aunt, but Mama said she’s the closest to family you have.
You asked Mama why she isn’t coming with you. “Because,” she said, “it’s better this way.” Better for who? you wonder.
Maybe Aunt Claudia will let you put up posters in the room—your room. You’ve never stayed in one place long enough to bother.
The ride is bumpy. Your body slides around in the seat. You try to ignore the dampness, try to drift to sleep. You wish Mama were here.
Days later, or maybe just hours, the train heaves to a stop. You step out. Vancouver grumbles a reluctant welcome.
The rain pounds daggers into your skin. The wind strokes your hair, threatens to rip it from your scalp.
Mama never told you what Aunt Claudia looks like.
All around you . . . faces, strangers, grey.
You wonder how far Paris is.
You