distance

one of the more popular family anecdotes about little noodle was "the time she ran away". just past the age of 8 months, i was walking. whether it was the lure of the shoes or ambitious independence -- you make the call.

honestly, i'm sure having something that small toddling around had to have been a royal pain for my mom who frequently played single mother for stretches. she was shoe shopping (yup!) and i was being a "brat", so she put me outside the store, in the stroller, with admonishments to "stay put! i'll be right out. don't you dare move!" all that was left of the transaction was to pay, and when she did and came to fetch me, i was gone. being better behaved, the stroller had followed instructions, but i was nowhere in sight. we were in a very busy shopping neighborhood of brooklyn, on a wide avenue. she ran to the corner, screaming my name. nothing.

she dodged traffic, across the street to the police station. a childhood friend, who still carried a torch, tried calming her down and ran outside with her. they crossed the street.

he canvassed the other shoppers, people in the nearby stores. how could nobody see what happened? unlike today, with milk-carton kids, amber alerts and sex offenders, it wasn't off the charts to take your eyes off your kid for a second, so i can only imagine the panic in my young mother's heart. she wasn't yet 20.

no doubt it felt like a life-time, but i had been missing about 15 minutes when ronny (the cop) saw my hot pink beret bopping through the crowd. he ran and swooped me up in his arms, my mom fast on heels. of the 100s of adults i passed, not one thought to pick up this baby and look for her mom? wtf, ya know? or did i look that determined, lol?

best they could guess, i had simply walked a big square, all the way around the block. i wasn't crying or upset, in fact was laughing with delight.

from as far back as i can remember, i tried desperately to get away. i begged for sleep-away camp (which i got for several summers, and cried hysterically when i had to go back home. on parents' day, when they were always hours and hours late, i secretly hoped they'd not show, even though the counselors always worried about me being alone); i pleaded for boarding school (which i did not get); vacations, i went off by myself as much as they'd allow. if we had to sit separately on the plane, i was thrilled and pretended i was traveling alone. when i got a car, i would sometimes drive backroads aimlessly, just to get out of the house.

when it came time to choose a college, boston was acceptable because i could be home in a few hours if there was an emergency, and we all joked "ha-ha", that it was far enough away they couldn't just drop in on me.

as soon as i moved away patches of silence, emotional distance, punctuated the miles between my home and theirs.

the summer between my freshman and sophomore year, my mother insisted i wasn't allowed to remain in the city and had to come home. it was a long hot summer in that house and i cried often and ate little. one of the last teary exchanges ended with her saying, "you don't ever want to live home again, do you?" in my anger, i heard it as a j'accuse, don't ever even think about it, you little bitch, but she could have just as easily been dying inside knowing how bad things were between us, and that i never would.

this last stretch? i am not even certain quite how long. i know how long i have been with the owner, and i think it is longer than that.

as months turn to years, you stop wondering why and it just *is*.

then something you never dreamed comes true and you have to bridge the miles. in lots of directions.

the question remains how close do i get and still stay safe?