Escape: Part Deux

Spice racks, or maybe it was the block of knives.
No, it started with the zip-hum of the top drawer being opened after the clock radio eased them awake. Certainly, it was that roll of socks being pulled out that sparked me out of my sleep and made my legs feel like they wanted to run to a ravaged Congo. No, I wanted to be flung, penniless and without a passport, over to Pyongyang. In fact, when I woke up this morning to him taking a shower and her making their ritual pre-work coffee, I would have been satisfied just being dropped in East Saint Louis. Instead, though, I paced around their Capital Hill apartment. I traced my finger along the jars of spices and slide each knife out of and back into the wooden block. I opened their refrigerator and knew that the yogurt was portioned for daily lunch. He had told her not to worry, "Babe, you know this meeting with the boss is not about you, it's about what you guys are going to tell everyone else to do." She smiled, "I know. You're right." I listened as their footsteps echoed the hallway.

Winter coats, or maybe it's the sleepy dog.
No, it settled in with the absolutely vacant ring of the phone I have come to leave tucked in a bag. Certainly, since there are no words, no rituals, no reassurances, I find my heart itching to fly by the island and land in Urumuqi . No, I want to email him and tell him to bring me to Uttar Pradesh. In fact, as I sit here looking at my suitcase slap-paste-juxtaposed against their placemats and wedding photos, I would be satisfied to just have Vermont. Instead, though, I consider the return to the damp air. I feel the ghost wax under my fingernails when I coat my board tomorrow. The essence of salt graces my tongue in anticipation of poke. Yet, I will open my refrigerator, bereft of portions, only five half-full bottles of liquor. I will prepare to meet my boss, yet no one will volunteer unambiguous support. And the only footsteps I'll hear imprinting my blossom covered driveway will be my own.

A tangible home, or maybe it is routine.
No, what I remember is that jolt of being alive when there was a family.