How To Pack For Your Dream Getaway

"Leave?" he laughed at you yesterday.

Don't miss your window.

You should probably have a more specific destination in mind at this point, but don't worry too much about that now. It's already quarter past two; that gives you four hours to put some miles between you and this house. As if there are enough miles in the world to put between you and this house. Whatever you can cross in four hours will have to suffice for now. By tomorrow, who knows? Cities and fields and entire oceans could spread between now and then. Feelings and people and places full of light. Places full of air, places you've never seen before, places that have never seen you. Places that are not here. Destinations will come. Right now, you need to take a leap of faith.

Choose your bag carefully.

I know it's all you can do not to run for the door now that you've decided to go, but you will need more than your purse. The suitcase is too big, though. You have to check suitcases on planes and trains, and that costs money. Heaven knows you don't have money. He'll notice the case missing, anyway, right after he notices you missing. It's still like new, tags attached and everything. He bought the case for that California trip two years back, remember. When he said he'd take you to see the ocean. You'd need a one-piece to cover the marks, but you might still look pretty. This was when he was still a little sorry. He'd make it up to you. If you would try a little harder then so would he, and a vacation would make things better. Everything would be better. That suitcase never made it to the coast and neither did you, but it's still full of salt water. Not you. You're all dried out. Wrung salty and stiff after making seas of your own. Definitely better to leave the suitcase--you don't need that kind of baggage. You do need sturdy, strong, something with straps. You might have to carry it for a while, after all, and your shoulders can take the weight. Your old blue backpack will work, the one you used to carry around campus. It still smells like coffee and autumn, despite the last few years the poor thing has spent smashed up in the attic. Don't worry about the front zipper. Should be plenty of space for what's left of you without that pocket.

Pack the essentials.

Luckily you don't need much. Stick your purse in the backpack somewhere. Between the Band-Aids and breath mints, you should have enough in there to hold yourself together for a few days. You'll need whatever cash is eroding in the crevices. In time, maybe that old purse will store more than a few dollars. Make sure your ID is still there too. Read the name a few times. Your name, his name. Your name, his name. That can be changed. And you'll get a new picture taken too, with your crazy hair piled on top of your head and a real smile on your face. One that looks like you. Grab another t-shirt, extra pair of jeans. Throw on the sneakers, stash the heels in the backpack. Might as well dig out the short dress to match. Don't worry, it's not so silly to pack them; beyond that door, there's a wide world full of dance floors and dance partners and all those happy places that are not here. The bruises on your legs will have faded in a couple weeks. And your shoulders. And your ribs. Spaghetti straps and hemlines will fit you like armor in the sun. Leave his sweater. Hide his sweater. Cram his sweater in the trash can, and throw your journal in there with it for good measure. On second thought, pack the journal. Every page of your life is a piece of you, and the bad and good are all worth remembering. Those who study history are less likely to repeat it. One of your professors said that. Maybe you could go back there. You'll have a chance to thank her. Have a chance to finish that degree, or maybe a different one. Whatever you want. Everything you want. Pack a toothbrush. In a few minutes, you'll be allowed to smile again, and once you've started you won't be able to stop.

Do a final check.

It's almost half past two. A little less than four hours until he gets home. Gets here. To this house. Not home. Not today. Not anymore. Sling that backpack onto your shoulders; be gentle though. Don't worry, they will be less tender in a few days. Straighter. Stronger. Hold your breath and double check the closet for loose change, but don't touch his clothes too much. Don't let that cologne tattoo itself inside your nose. Your lungs have better air to breath. Autumn coffee air. Even ocean air. Definitely ocean air. Either way, free air. Don't look at the bed. Leave the room. Leave the smiling pictures that hang over dents in the wall. Leave the hallway and the accent table with the sharp corners. Leave the kitchen and the fridge you filled up yesterday. Leave the living room and its dead space. Don't look at the piano. The sounds that echo off these walls haven't been that sweet in a long time. He might sing sad songs in a few days, once he's done breaking things and leaving unopened voicemails. Feel free to find some victory in that. He'll yell and cry and spill heaven knows what down those piano keys and you'll be singing anthems to a salty breeze with your toes in warm sand. Find victory in that. Give this place a final sweep--you'll never see it again, if you have your way.

Turn your back.

Grab the doorknob.

Pull the door open.

"Leave?!" he laughed at you yesterday. "Where the hell would you go?!"

Step outside. The rain will feel cold and taste sweet and you'll breath it in like new life.

"Anywhere."