A piece of bread slipped under my door when I’ve been locked in my room.
A softness in her eyes that makes me feel seen and doomed at the same time.
More than once I’ve whispered to her:
“Come with me, Ma.”
And every time I say it, she looks at me as though I’m offering her the moon.
Before she walks away.
Before she changes the subject.
The guilt of leaving her behind makes me nauseous.
I push the thought away.
Swallowing hard, I reach for my backpack.
Unzipping it, I sort through its contents.
Two heavy water bottles.
Three changes of clothes.
Two packets of dry crackers.
One spoon.
Half a jar of peanut butter.
I rummage around with my hand to find a few stray items.
My notebook and pencil.
A toothbrush.
A crumpled stargazing map that I tore out of a school book five years ago.
A picture of a beach, also stolen from a book.
A steak knife from the kitchen sink in case I need protection.
Even though I'm safer in the wild than at home.
I have eight dollars in coins that the neighbour gave me for weeding her garden.
And one more thing.
The most important thing.
A photo of me and my mum that I swiped from a shoebox in the linen cupboard.
I must have been about seven when this was taken.
Even though I had missing teeth for different reasons.
What an ugly bowl cut.
