The kind of scent that latches on to your hair and makes you smell like a first grader fresh from recess, or a puppy. Still, I forced a giggle and a small twirl on the sidewalk when I felt I was far enough from home to officially be free, even if it was only temporary.Įarly November in Detroit has that just-about-to-snow smell. For some reason, in the warmth of my bedroom, it seemed impossible to leave behind. The antiClaus.īy the time I reached the park, I began to regret packing that snow globe. My black garbage bag gave me the look of Santa Claus in combat boots. I had to stop a few times to readjust my things so the mismatched straps of my bags wouldn't cut into my hands. through the alley, down three streets, heading toward the park behind the police station.
To prove my seriousness, I took almost everything I owned with me. I crawled through my bedroom window, landing with a heavy thud onto the frozen strawberry patch my mother had given up on last season, creeped along the side of my house, past the livingroom window, where I could hear the sounds of Jerry Seinfeld from the television. I was fourteen the first time I left home.
