to an escapee

I can't tell you how much I've thought about you these past 12 years,
Even though I've never met you.

I met your son first.
When I was working at the laundrymat
 (the one in New Orleans, on Magazine Street.
It was new and I was one of only two employees.
I had a weird racist coworker who hated me because
she was insecure that I read more than her...)

Anyway, your son picked me up,
looking for a new mom.

He was a sweet kid,
not that I really liked kids all that much then
or even now, with one of my own.

I mean, I always hear I'm good with kids but I think that's just because I don't condescend to them like they're morons.
Though I'm also way too permissive and a bad influence.

But this is about you.
your story.
and my fascination with it.

I first heard about you in what I imagine used to be your house.

I mean I always knew the kid had to have a mom at some point.
But maybe you were dead--cancer, something really tragic.
Or divorce, at least.  Maybe you lived somewhere else in the city and for some reason
your husband had primary custody.  Maybe you split the week. I didn't really care all that much.

But then I found out that you had just disappeared.
you disappeared.
disappeared.
disappeared.
dsappea
diaper

how is that even possible?  did your husband send out a PI, just like in the Lifetime movies?
maybe he called your friend, your family, your work (I imagine you worked, at least a few hours a week at a diner or hotel--some menial, service industry nightmare but with primarily working-class clientele so there's not even a hint of prestige involved--just like me.)

A monkey could've done your job, and you knew it, even though you did it well.
A monkey could've even raised your boy, come to think of it, and you realized that too.

And when you realized a monkey might've done a better job, that's when you left.

It was you, the mystery of you, the intrigue of you, the complete gutsiness, the brass balls, insanity,
the delicious, evil selfishness of you
that attracted me to the sad little family you had left behind.

This attraction has only increased as I've aged,
become more sedate,
more responsible.

My song back then was Dinah Washington's "Call me Irresponsible."
Now my song is something more like Fleetwood Mac's Tusk album...Maybe "Over and Over,"
which I'm listening to right now as I scramble to get ready for my own crappy job, clean the house for the in-laws, and watch my son, half-naked (potty-training), pummel his plastic ride-on cow with his stuffed peacock toy.

Maybe I should be worried--maybe he's got unhealthy levels of aggression or maybe he's got a thing against animals....maybe I gave him too much sugar this morning, maybe I oughta be more vigilant about teeth-brushing (both his and mine)
but mostly I'm just happy he's occupied.

but back to you.

you, my muse who disappeared into the night.

I imagine it must've been at night. 

I vaguely remember hearing your boy was 3 when you left, just as mine is now.

I realize this must sound like I want to do what you did.
that I want to abandon my kid.
Now, here is where I'm supposed to say "Oh, no never, how could I?!"
but I don't want to be judgy or the lady that protests too much.

And the thing is, I think about it.
I sometimes fantasize about it like you might fantasize about hot sex with Norman Reedus in the zombie apocalypse--you and him on a dirt floor in a barn,
your feet pushing up against the door to keep the walkers at bay,
his sweat dripping on you,
your hand grazes the crossbow and cuts you,
you suck on your bloodied hand and think,
"Yes! this is awesome!" at the same time as you think "Holy fuckin shit!  I'm gonna die! Where can I get quality health care for this cut?!  The blood will attract the walkers! Fuck, I can't hold the door anymore--I'm just not strong enough!"

And that's the thing, yeah I'm sort of jealous of you but I'm also really into safety, security, and family.  I'm probably strong enough to just drop it all and still survive,
but survival isn't all I want, baby.

And besides, for all I know your husband lied and he actually killed you--
used his handyman's tools to cut you up and feed you to the gators in the bayou.

Maybe I nearly dodged a similar fate.

But if you are out there, I wish you only the best.

I hope you went out to Sedona and found yourself.
Or maybe you joined a biker gang and had 3 more kids,
and now you're all reunited, your older son, grown and forgiven you,
and your new husband is a good provider, a good talker,
you don't have to work at that crappy diner anymore just to keep the lights on,

and best of all, you don't have to live with a goddamned pet squirrel.