Running Away

Like a hobo, I packed up my clothes to leave. Then my favorite late afternoon t.v. show started. I spent commercials running my clothes back to where they belonged. Running away is hard work, which explains why I waited decades before trying it again. Tomorrow, at 3 a.m., I'll be in downtown St. Louis boarding the Greyhound bus bound for Cleveland, TN. I'm visiting my mother for a few days. She is turning 75. There's a party planned, followed by a road trip. While other people go on cruises or book flights on the space shuttle to celebrate milestones, we're driving to south Georgia. If we are lucky, we will see some big alligators. If we are really lucky, we won't. Just like before, technically I'm not sneaking away. Mom knew what I was doing many years ago, although I don't remember that she pitched in to pack or unpack my stuff. This time, Big Guy is my ride to the bus. But my exit is timely enough to be admired as skipping out. While I'm cruising the highways, Birdie will be taking final exams and Daisy will be cramming a semester's worth of biology into a three-week May-mester class. Also, it's starting to feel like spring/summer, which means the grass is growing. I'm not going to be here to mow it. Neither will I be here to clean up after the cats. They chew the grass outside then throw it back up inside. While it's Too Much Information for you, for me, missing that fun is the sweet icing on a freshly baked cake.