The Runaway
When I was a kid, I went through a phase where I would bi-weekly threaten to ‘run away’ from home.
‘Running Away’ consisted of me loudly announcing ‘I’M RUNNING AWAY!!!’ followed by my gathering some essentials (usually my Glo-Worm doll, some light reading and a few pairs of shoes).
All of this would go into my hobo stick that I had fashioned out of a yardstick and a baby blanket. After all, this was how rebels used to do it. The young and misunderstood. The adventurers and explorers. The fugitives and outlaws.
Also, Bugs Bunny.
I sniffled as I waved goodbye from the door, ‘You’ll learn to go on without me…’ I’d say, and then I’d walk for about 2 blocks - then run back, TERRIFIED. I’d always mutter that I had forgotten something and had to come back home.
It happened so often that it reached the point where no one even blinked. In fact, one time as I was packing, my older sister (barely looking up from her Archie comic) motioned to her suitcase and advised that I should take that instead, ‘so that you won’t FORGET ANYTHING this time.’ While my younger sister asked gleefully if she could have my room when I was gone.
I’m not sure if it was the complete indifference that they showed me, or the fact that using a suitcase was terribly unromantic for a hip, young runaway like myself…
… but I never ‘ran away’ again.
