A warm day, like it had been the last day and the last day and the last day before this day and it was warm day like how all last days have been and will be.
These were the days when fans blasted out hot air, so you turned them off.
These were the days when everything sagged and sighed; the trees, the buildings and the human lives.
This was the the day that was to be the last day that my children would be living at home.
My children informed me of their plans to run away, after lunch.
“We are running away,” they said to me.
“Okay,” I said, back to them.
“After supper,” they further said to me.
“Okay,” I completely agreed with them. “If you want to go, then go.”
And, “Yes,” my children agreed, they would go.
My children reminded me several times an hour of their plan.
I nodded.
And supper hour came and went.
It was quarter to eight, when my daughter asked, “When are we having supper?”
“No supper,” I said.
“What do you mean NO SUPPER?” she replied and she was unhappy.
“I am not hungry,” I said.
“What do you mean? You are not going to feed us?”
“You are running away. Which means you do not live here. I did not recall inviting you to dinner.” I reasoned. I smiled.
“You have to feed us,” she said.
“No, I don’t,” I said.
“Then, we are running away now.” My daughter glared at me, straight in the eye, before storming towards her room, yelling her brother’s name. “We are going. Now.”
And when my children came out of their rooms, they both wore backpacks full.
“We packed bags,” my daughter said. Looking smug.
“Good idea,” I said.
“Want to know what we are taking?”
“No,” I said. And this seemed to make my daughter very angry because she grabbed her brother’s hand and pulled him to the front door.
“Good-bye,” I said to them, from the couch.
“Good-bye,” said my son. But I just barely heard him. My daughter was slamming the front door behind them.
Five minutes later, my daughter walked back in through the front door and joined me on the couch.
She did not say anything to me and so I did not say anything to her.
Five more minutes later, my son walked into he house and he stood in the doorway. “Let’s gooooo,” he insisted to his sister.
“We’re not going,” she said. She crossed her arms.
I would have asked her why, but my son became quite loud. He began crying. Like it was the last day of earth. His face was red and suddenly, he was bolting his fists to his side and his neck was strained and he could barely talk.
“I-am-pissed-offff—at–you!”
“Why is your brother so mad at you?” I asked my daughter, with raised eyebrows.
She shrugged, still unwilling to talk to me.
And my son sobbed, “We’re-going-t-t-to-live-at Wal-Mart.”
Rolling My Eyes 