Your mom cried as she told daddy and all of us that she wasn’t trash to be tossed out. She didn’t want to go to Montana. The Greyhound ticket she asked me to buy for her on her lap. “My mother pulls me by the hair down the hall. I’m scared.” You comfort your mommy. “We won’t let her do that to you, mommy.” You assure her. In awhile I say how scary this all is, no home, no food, money, school, job. No place to go and let down. Your decisions are not ones you want to make. The plans are not what you would choose. And this is right for you to go, get help from your family, sleep inside, learn to drive and get dental services. Dad will find a job again and call her to come back, I tell you. I see you take some of the worry with you to the sandbox. You mutter to your dinos out there.
We leave for the lake on Sunday, daddy sleeps in the garage, sets up a cooler, coffee on a hotplate and goes to town for cellphone. He’s not having fun either. Mommy ran away yesterday and hid in the woods, but grandpa saw her from his truck out on Empire and daddy found her and gave her some medication to help her get it together and go. UGH. My belly hurts. I bet hers does too.
Packing to go, contractors, house sitters, packing, shopping, easier to just stay here. But longing for some kind of Echo time. You want to catch daddy a fish. So we go. gma