In the Dark

What to take? What to leave? Twelve long years stuffed into trash bags.

I'd snuck into the woods: when it was dark, when it wasn't; when he was home, when he wasn't.

I hid black garbage bags crammed with can't-leave-behind possessions and two toddlers' necessities.

Within days, when he left for an evening with the guys, we left, too.

I buckled my kids into a friend's car, and she and I hunted for the bags behind ghostly trees, beneath the man in the moon's critical eyes.

At the women's shelter, the front lights shone so brightly I felt at home.