We Never Went Back

She said, “Bring your things.”

So I packed my favorite cassettes-

voices I knew by heart-

My Little Ponies with chewed-up hooves,

and the 35mm camera I didn’t know how to use yet.

It wasn’t vacation.

She wasn’t folding. She was stuffing-

old Army duffels she’d rescued from my father,

grabbing first aid kits like we were heading into war

against something invisible.

The carpet was dark green, flat,

the kind that left rug burns when you tripped.

Our trailer walls: fake wood paneling

that looked cheap because it was.

No explanations. No clues.

Just the sound of preparation:

cans hitting the bottom of bags,

the slosh of milk jugs filling at the tap,

drawers yanked open,

cabinets half-emptied and left swinging.

I didn’t ask.

I never asked.

Just followed.

If Mom was afraid,

I knew enough to keep up.

The Rabbit’s trunk yawned open in the dark.

She moved fast-

too fast to react, to think.

She said, “It’s not safe here.”

I asked where we were going.

She said, “Somewhere else.”

We hadn’t left yet.

But the road had already opened beneath us.

We never went back.

I never knew why.