Sunday for leaving
I shrug into a jacket, jeans
and shoes without socks
because I can’t find a clean pair.
Mum is already in the kitchen,
her suitcase beside the back door.
She looks away when I walk in.
I don’t feel like breakfast.
‘Trish will be here in a few minutes,’ Mum says.
I take a deep breath.
‘I might visit Manx.’
Mum reaches out her arms
and we embrace.
My head rests on her shoulder;
I smell lilac soap
and nail polish.
I close my eyes.
‘I’ve left enough money
for bus fares and food
until your dad gets back,’ Mum says.
I step away,
suddenly angry.
‘He has a name, you know.’
I stomp out the back door
and Mum calls after me,
but I don’t stop.
I leap over the fence,
run towards the track
and up to the top of Sattlers Hill.
Auntie Trish’s car turns the corner.
Mum walks to the footpath
and tosses her suitcase into the back seat,
but doesn’t get into the car.
She says something to Trish,
then runs back inside.
She’s gone for a few minutes
until Trish sounds the horn.
Mum hops in the front seat.
The car rumbles down the street.