When the Running Stops

If you were to leave your entire life behind,
and run away someplace far away
where no one knows your name,

how would you do it,
what name would you choose for yourself?

Would you be able to leave your home,
and create a new one in some long-forgotten town?

Perhaps you'd like to rent a room in the town motel,
or maybe you're willing to buy a house
from the old lady at the end of the street,
the price cheaper than it should be.

She has no family,
just like you.

She wishes you inherit her legacy,
the house her late beloved had made,
and his dusty, old Chevrolet.

Doubt and pride try to come in your way,
but the single duffel slung across your back
roots you to the ground.

You stare into her pleading eyes,
they are kind,
and they have no reason to be.

Yet they rake over you,
the pity in them flowing,
and pouring over your head in cold kindness
until you are completely drenched
in what you think is pity,
but is not.

Would you reach out to her extended hand,
accept the keys,
her past she wants you to look after?

Do you turn your head,
and glance down the path you've braved,
the knowledge that you cannot walk back
sitting heavy in your soul?

Do you give the bunch in your hand a tight squeeze?

You feel it sting your calloused palms,
that confirms your reality.

It is not a dream.

You then cross her threshold.

She leads you in deeper,
and you pass your new car
as you walk into your new home.

You gently rest your only possession
on the creaky wooden floor,
it holds your fragile heart,
safely tucked inside your old tattered clothes.

She shows you to your kitchen,
piping hot tea waiting for the both of you.

She blows on hers.

You play with the cup,
you have always preferred coffee,
but you didn't bring it with you, did you?

Do you gingerly press your lips
to the chipped porcelain
and burn your tongue,

or do you politely refuse
her dead husband's favorite morning tea?

It is chamomile.
Gentle enough for new beginnings.

You thank her for the drink,
and look around,
as your fingers trace the scribbles and drawings on the walls,
the marks on the door frames,
a record of fleeting springs.

The torn wallpaper,
all little gifts left behind by her son,
a lifetime ago, she says.

He's left home
and never looked back, she says.

Her eyes disappear behind raindrops,
memories washing over her face,
making their home inside the folds of her wrinkles.

Do you wipe her tears,
and offer solace
as you wrap your arms around her shaking, tiny figure,

or do you do her a favor
and move on with the tour,
trying your best to ignore the pang of jealousy
over her son, who has someone to miss him back home?

She smells like apples.

The two of you walk outside,
your arms entwined.

Do you follow her to the swing,
or peer out into your backyard?

The swing complains out loud under your weight.

It used to be her daughter's,
she died young, she tells you.

Together, you stare into the distance.

Her garden, nurtured with love and care,
had prospered too.

An apple tree stands alone across the yard.

They had sowed its seed long ago,
when they were young,
and in love.

The only witness of their story,
besides time itself.

It is yours now, she says.

A few deep breaths later,
you are jolted from your reverie
as a dull thud captures your full attention now,

an apple fallen near the roots.

Do you walk to it,
and bear the fruit of someone else's labor,

or do you ignore it?

It's not your business anymore,
picking up pieces that are not yours.

You bite into the bruised apple,
back on your swing,
drops of juice falling onto your lap
as you listen to what the old lady has to say.

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, my dear,"
she says.

You walk her inside,
and she helps you settle in.

Your new home patiently waits for your touch,
and she'll live with you,
the old lady,

for as long as she lives.

Then she shall leave you too,
to reunite with her family again.

The engine sputters,
and welcomes you to town
as you ride into the sunset,
getting to know your new hometown better.

Many ask for your name,
and after what feels like forever,
you finally smile,
and give it to them.

Your new identity.
Your fresh start.
Your blank page.

They write into it
with colors you never thought you'd see again.

Later in the night,
you will snuggle into the old lady's bed.

Her lingering presence sings to you,
a sweet lullaby as old as time,

and after a long while,
you cannot wait to start a new day tomorrow.

You look forward to it,
with open arms.