Twelve Mile Journey

Snow plows groan as   salt trucks spread their car-eating deposits. Grinding through the night,
the main roads would be cleared by morning.
In Ohio, that meant schools would be open.  
 
With two feet of snow on the ground  
and plunging temperatures,  
of all the days to run away,  
Tim and I had picked the worst,  
dressed mainly in Levi's and poly-fill jackets.  
 
We decided to make our getaway at lunch.  
We had $15 dollars between us.    
We were heading for Florida, solely because we imagined it was as warm  
as we were cold.  
 
Threading through a dense woods for cover,  
we chanced discovery, and found Sue's house (a classmate).  She told us "everyone" was looking for us. That was the first time  
all day I gave any thought to my family.  
 
Sue said we could stay in an old sheep shed  
and gave us an unopened can of Campbell's  
soup. We ate the soup cold from the can.  We were 12 miles from school. In the morning we'd head for I-75, a straight shot to Florida.  
 
Around 11:00 p.m. two police officers located us (Sue caved) and drove us home.  We were both more afraid of arriving home than spending the night in the shed. Mother was waiting, "how could you do this to us?"  
 
How do answer that question for a wailing mother? What words or self-awareness does a 13 year-old possess?  "I don't know," I said; instantly knowing how pathetic that sounded. No matter, mother had a head full of things left to say.    
 
Not until much later in life did I understand the language of depression.  How I wish today that I was armed  with the right words that night. Tim is frozen in mind (we long ago lost touch) and my bones are still cold.