A Woman Goes Off the Grid
I have this fantasy of what it would feel like to be free
Last night, I had a dream that I was hiding. Secreted. Tucked away in a room cluttered with newspaper, old velvet chairs, soiled sheets, and clothes that smelled of moths and wet wood. They were children’s clothes — red jumpers and polka dot pants. Teddy bears stenciled on sweaters. In the center of the room, I made a clearing. Set down my cat carrier, the suitcase and backpack I’d hastily packed. You should know that I’m not the hasty type. I’m the kind of woman who would shudder at the thought of shoving balled-up shirts in a bag. Yet here I was — wrinkled clothes, a few books, and jars of honey. One fat cat clawing its way out.
I remember the dream, vividly, because I kept waking from sleep only to return to it, picking up where I’d left off. Before the room and the suitcase, I was arguing with a couple in a restaurant. Their faces were a stockpiling of masks, reminding me of this Twilight Zone episode where the shape of a man’s face would change whenever he willed it. But this parlor trick got him killed in the end, and I sat at a table wondering who exactly I was speaking to. Yelling at. Wanting to escape from. At one point, they left the table for the bathroom or the check, and I ran. Night morphed into day, and I grabbed what I could from a home I didn’t recognize and…
