Two Runaways On A Twelve Mile Journey  

           
Grinding through the night,            
whirring salt trucks spread their car-consuming deposits. With the main roads cleared,          
school would be open.            
           
With two plus feet of snow and plunging temperatures, of all days to runaway,          
Tim P. and I picked the worst, dressed mainly in Levi's and poly-fill "down" jackets.          
           
Tim P. and I made our getaway at lunch.         
With $15 between us, we decided on Florida  because, we imagined, it was as warm as we were cold.          
           
Threading through a dense woods for cover,          
we chanced discovery, and found a classmate's house. Sue D. said "everyone" was looking for us.            
           
It was the first time all day          
I'd given any thought to my family.          
           
Hunkered down in an old sheep shed,          
Sue D. provisioned us with an unopened can of Campbell's soup. We ate the soup cold.      
We were 12 miles from school.            
           
Around 11:00 p.m. two police officers located us (Sue D. caved),  and drove us home.            
We were more afraid of arriving home            
than spending a night in the shed.            
           
Mother was waiting, "how could you do this to us?"          
           
How do you answer that question for a wailing mother? "I don't know," instantly knowing just how pathetic that sounded.            
           
No matter, mother had a head full of things left to say.  The feeling returned to my nose and ears, but my bones are still cold.      
           
Only much later did I come to understand            
the language of depression.             
         
           
           
           
           
           
           
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