White plastic bag

An old journal entry that makes a story in its own right

The first time I ran away I was ten. Mama had asked me to do a table at the children’s Festival of art - a  hundred volunteers, each with a table full of art supplies, children and parents moving from table to table, learning a new art form at each one. I was to do Origami, my friend and I. I’m not sure what ever happened to her, but I was left doing it alone.

I did it for about an hour, but I too was a child. After a while I went off to play and do art projects of my own - leaving a sign that my table was out of service. Five hours later I returned. The sign was gone. My paper was strewn chaotically. Travesty of travesties, they were cutting the paper - the first thing you never do in Origami

I put it all in a white plastic bag and never looked at it again.

- well, not quite true. I have a vague memory of looking in the bag when I was older, fourteen or so - seeing nothing scary - but equally nothing of value. I think I threw it all away. A child’s treasure. I know I never did origami again.

There were other times I ran. Never looked back. Locked someone or something once important away. My best friend Anders when I was twelve. He told his mother, who told my mother, who told me - that he didn’t want to play imaginary games anymore. I always called him, he never called me. I stopped calling. We were friendly when we met but nothing more.

I decided one day to stop my harp lessons. It took too much time. Twenty or so songs mastered - gone. I’ve never touched a harp since. Dance lessons were the same. Five years of ballet. I simply stopped one year. I watched others perform, but never performed again.

Into the white plastic bag.

Now Sequim. Last time I left it was in disgrace. A terrible night watching Courage the cowardly dog. A day spent waiting. I’d thought my friend Jessica and I would be doing something, so I’d skipped the morning bus. The next was in the evening. She politely, oh so politely, tells me her boyfriend is angry I’m still here, still imposing. I flee. I don’t return.

Into the white plastic bag.

Now I’m on the bus heading to Sequim. It’s the first time I think I’ve ever consciously peeked in. It’s been a year since I was last here. Now I look back.

I get off the bus and look at the time. 12:35 - five minutes after I said I’d be. Jessica was to meet me here. Perhaps she’ll be on the next bus. I go to the spot where I used to wait. The sword I hid in the bushes is still there. I take it out and practice for half an hour. It’s exhilerating.

I find all my movements - the ones I’ve been teaching - they were born on this spot. This sky. This cement. This sword. This sun. It feels so right.

A bus comes. I check. Nothing. I sit down to read. At 2:00 I decide she’s not coming. I walk to the library  and get on line. There’s a message from her sent minutes before.

“I can’t come.”

“Why?”

“It’s too scary.”

“I’m in Sequim. I brought lunch and tea. - Come help me eat them?”

A pause.

“Well I haven’t eaten . . .”

She’ll come. I’m to meet her back at the transit station.

I walk, picking up litter as I go. Almost to the transit station I see a recycle bin - reach into my pocket for the can I stowed there earlier - and find my wallet gone. A split second decision, I stash my backpack under a bush  and run. It’s exhilarating, for here too is a piece of Pan I haven’t touched in a while. Physically capable, dashing down the street under the Sequim sun. I retrieve my wallet from where I knew it would be. Set by the computer when I retrieved my library card. I alternate running and walking back to arrive just as Jessica rounds a corner. By the time I get there she’s rounded the building, but I find her. She starts when she sees me.

It’s good to see her.

We talk and eat. I brought Spaghetti and meat sauce. Messy food. It’s good for her. She tries to eat it daintily and fails. We banter. I had forgotten how easily we banter. I talk perhaps a little more than I should, but she doesn’t mind.

And slowly I remember. Old patterns and insider jokes. She hints and I assume, and oddly I’m always right. They’re good hints.

She talks, I talk.

It’s good to be home.