Running Away.

Running Away. -By Brian Sottosanti.

Summer days in Southern California always started in the garden with tea. Ten years ago, the morning began where patches of water laid in the crevices of french moldings on terra- cotta pots. Gravel separated the wooden vegetable boxes where tall tomato plants and sprouting herbs were nestled in the watered soil. She stood beneath the trellis which was covered with giant pink and white roses, where light shone through the petals, casting a cherubic glow to her cheeks. Moving to one of the pots, she bent over and gingerly rubbed a petal between her thumb and index finger, feeling or as if it seemed, testing its velvet like quality, and then moved the stalks to the side and quenched their thirsty roots. A thin stream of water came from the spout of a copper watering can. She set the pail back in its place along side the other neatly arranged tools and then turned to one of the roses, pulling her sunglasses off and squinting in affable countenance. I remember the polish of her nails matched the rich shade of the rose's vermillion face. A small patch of strawberries grew beneath the roses. She always let us pick as many as we wanted.

Just a few days before then, my sister and I had been in Kindergarten class. Mrs. Sokal directed the kids like herds of farm animals to their tables. They sat down next to us, pulling out ziplock bags from their lunch boxes. They were the kind of bags we never got. The fun kind of "baggies," the kind with the little orange cubes you could slide across. They zipped and unzipped their bags, moving the orange cube from side to side, as they looked around quickly, leaning over the table top to share nibbles of their friend's sugar coated treats. How much fun we'd have if we were only them we thought. We peered down into our lunch boxes where we found neatly wrapped organic basil, cilantro, salami and ricotta cheese on crispy baguette sandwiches, accompanied by sweet pickles, chopped cucumber, and tomato Arugula salad.

But today we were in the garden, staring into the bright orange pollen of mother's roses. "You ask, I did it last time!" Venice whispered, so loudly that mother could hear.
"No you ask her!" I protested.
"I'll give the signal on three," Venice said.

We looked at each other with anticipation, glancing down to where Venice's little hand, as white and smooth as a sea shell would give the signal. Her fingers slowly unwound, one at a time. Her third finger came to its full extension, as our eyes widened; it was time. We cleared our throats.

"Mommy, can we have Cheetos?" we whined.
She went on watering the plants, moving the pitcher in a circular motion.

"Maybe some day!" she said, smiling into the buds.
I stared into the dark fertilizer of the pot, wishing it was chocolate cookie crumble.

"But, bah... the other kids in school get Cheetos and good food, and we don't get to have anything like that!" I protested. It was time we leave for a different life, I thought.

"Okay then, we'll have to go live with someone else, with a different mommy who will give us Cheetos and chocolate!" I cried. She kept watering the roses.

"All right then, I guess you'd better go," she said teasingly.
"Fine then we will!" Venice said with a determined nod.
We packed our bags, complete with everything we'd ever need for the rest of our lives: Three mixed matched socks, our favorite stuffed animal and a pack of bubblegum. We had thought maybe to say one last good bye, but didn't want to spoil the grand exit we had already made. It was only clear that there was no going back. We came to the edge of the curb, pulling our roller backpacks behind us, mine a glossy candy apple red, with SpiderMan frozen in motion, swinging and shooting his webs and Venice's, a pale pink with fairytale princesses framing the glittered words "Disneyland". We chose the only way we knew, which was up, and so up we went, skipping along the side of the street to the rhythmic sound of our backpacks rolling wheels and our humming of the tune: "We're off to see the wizard". We traveled higher, skipping side by side, with interlocked arms. The sun shone through the late July golden leaves, spreading yellow patterns across the street. In the distance heat rose, creating wavy walls, making everything seem optimistic and overexposed, like a Polaroid picture. Our little minds marveled at the new life we would soon be leading, living at our friend Max's house which waited at the far end of the road. Our street, lined with trees, is a wide freshly laid black asphalt. Trees arrived completely new, yet fully grown, such as Great African Honeymoons, towering Redwoods, or Japanese Cherry Blossoms, for any tree desired can be bought and planted in one's yard in Brentwood or at least on Carmelina Avenue. Occasionally I would see Elisa Samsbottom driving down the street in her white and chrome trimmed Escalade. Her tanned face was pulled tight with many nips and tucks and her sunglasses concealed her icy blue eyes. She was always a rather amusing spectacle if we were to see her at the grocery market or about a restaurant in the area.