No words were her friends, so she released her lyric-less song into the silence, a high lonesome sound. 1934. Her world was caving in. So she ran. She wanted to look back but she couldn’t.
Fear defined her.
Even now, all these years later, fear still nips at her heels—even though most days it feels like she’s been standing still forever. She’d heard the preacher tell about what happened when Lot’s wife looked back.
So she ran.
The love that had held her, grabbed her, gripped her—that love, those hands that had reached for her with desire, first pulled and now held her away from the only world she’d ever known. A train whistle pierced the night. Startled her as it did that night so long ago. That love, those hands, reaching to her through the window, drawing her into the darkness. They ran together.
No letters came to her because she had written none. She no longer belonged anywhere. She was no one and nowhere.
Not looking back meant being silent. No one could know where they were, what kind of dishes they ate their breakfast from, how her daughter’s eyes spit Fourth of July sparks just like grandma’s. No one could know. She was more afraid now 30 years later than when the first 50 miles disappeared behind them in the night mist. That’s what surprised her most of all. How the fear had grown. She wanted to look back then, but she couldn’t. Fear defined her. So she ran.
I never knew her. Her name is Aria. . .