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.