Red-and-white-striped shirted
Teddy bear in hand
(his name later became Todd),
I threw an outfit into a bag
and stomped out of the house,
walking up the hill to the only
place I knew to go—
the elementary school.

With my bull horns
shining, I didn’t even look back
until I heard the rumbling
of the rusty blue Datsun
and my mother’s
screaming-banshee voice
telling me to get inside.

I don’t recall what the
original argument was over,
just that she had
raised her voice one
too many times that day,
and my six-year-old patience
had come to a bitter end.

At dinner that night,
she tried to hug me
and sternly whispered in my ear,
“Don’t you ever do that again,”
but her arms were stiff boards,
her skin was as cold as the wind on my walk,
her voice was icy glass,
and I knew it wouldn’t be the last time.