My house is covered in post-its.
Not because I’m mapping out a new story or making notes on a revision, not for the purpose of tracking plot lines or marking pages in a well-worn manual.
In less than thirty-days, I am moving. Those post-its, colored pink and green and orange are a map to the belongings staying behind, going to family, friends, the donation pile, or, the pink ones, scrawled messy with the word Cali — those are going with me.
In less than thirty-days, I am moving to California.
The first time I ran away from home I was nine-years-old, armed with a pink and purple Caboodles box and a few peanut butter sandwiches. I was running to Hollywood, seeking fortune and fame and a producer for my screenplay handwritten in a composition notebook. I walked down our gravel drive to a busy road and turned left— West, I thought. Traipsing ankle deep through bluebonnets, jelly sandals stuck with stickers, sunglasses slipping down my already pink, freckled nose, I imagined hitching a ride on a bus across the American Southwest. These were the dreams of a Full House fan with a Pollyanna heart.
I made it to the corner before my older brother caught me. He hauled me back up the drive, his grip tight around my scrawny arm, berating me the whole way, but nevertheless promising just this once that he wasn’t gonna tell Mom. He also informed me that I wasn’t walking toward California, but was actually headed Southeast, which he proved by flipping open his compass and flashing it at me in the late evening light.
I never promised not to run away again. I just promised I’d be better at it when I did.
In twenty-two days I will get in the car before daylight, snuggle my son against his pillow and secure the dogs in their seats. I’ll pull up the map on my phone, a modern compass complete with step-by-step vocal instruction, and my husband with put the car into drive. We’ll traipse across open desert and through National Forests. We’ll stay in motels friendly to dogs with pools favorable to a kid who’s part fish. We will be grouchy and scared shitless and together.
When I was fifteen, I planned an escape. My family was living in Colorado and every Sunday I drove by an interstate bus stop on my way to church. I had it worked out. I was going to board a bus bound for California, or Vegas, the Grand Canyon or Yosemite. I was older and had figured out which way was West, knew a few routes, could pass for eighteen and get jobs along the way. When I was fifteen we moved back to Texas and suddenly there were too many states in between, hurdles, and daydreams and the cute boy in the band.
But I never gave up, even when I forgot what I’d wanted.
Now I’m not nine, I’m not fifteen, and I’m not running at all.
I am chasing.
I’m a woman in hot pursuit of the illusive yet very real thing.
My caboodles box is a red and white POD and all my most useful belongings are post-it marked Cali. My bus is a black Jeep Patriot. My companions are a little boy with big dreams, two dogs with wagging tails, and a husband who’s happy to drive.