Runaway. That is what I want to do. They are all screaming and I can’t appease them at the same time. I’m trapped. He gets to go to work tomorrow; meanwhile, I look forward to a night of nursing an infant. Runaway. How ungrateful can I be for these beautiful miracles? I shame myself at the thought and yet, long for freedom.
I reach for my book, for a moment to read, to escape to another world. To imagine.
I look across the room and hear my children doing the same. Imagining. Making believe. Perhaps we never lose this talent, it just takes a different form.
The great escape. By car. By conversation. By imagination. We escape in our own ways and yet eventually we return to reality. In our moments of weakness, what do we do? Do we run or do we stay? Are we weaker or stronger as a result?
My words are my woods. I run. I feel the breeze, I inhale the clean air, feeling refreshed and ready to return. Exhausted. Invigorated. But present.
I am here. Here, I am. I will not run. I will stay, always, for you.