the morning i drove away

You packed the car the night before so you could leave before you changed your mind, and the whole street was still asleep when you pulled out, your houseplants belted into the passenger seat like family. Two hundred miles with the window cracked and the cold coming in, and the first coffee at the services tasted like a decision.

You sang the whole way. Everything you owned rattled every time you changed lanes, and you kept checking the mirror as if the old life might be following. It wasn't. By the time the road tipped downhill and you saw the sea, you were somebody who had done it.