A gray plastic sword, dented, from an old Halloween knight costume. Blue blankie. His shiny black treasure box, probably with a few dollars in it. The mozzarella and tomato sandwich I made him for lunch.
This morning, I learned what my ten-year-old would pack if he were running away.
“I’m leaving forever!” he screamed, brushing past me, sword in hand.
“Or…” he pointed dramatically to the basement stairs, “until he is gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. I never want to see him again!”
The boys had apparently had a fight.
“I’m out of here!” he yelled even louder, stuffing blue blankie into his backpack before glaring back up at me, “How far do you think a ten-year-old can get? Huh? Huh? How far?”
I sighed, “Not very far.”
So, he ran into the garage, grabbed his electric scooter, and took a lap around the block, yelling over his shoulder. “I’m leaving forever!”
I heard the garage door closing about a minute later. The runaway returned.
“Time for school, honey.”
Out came the sword, blue blankie, and the treasure box. He stomped them back up to his room. Then, backpack zipped, he climbed into the car as if nothing had happened.
It was his silent teenage brother who still fumed.