the morning i drove away

I packed the car the night before so I could leave before I changed my mind, and the whole street was still asleep when I pulled out, my 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.

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