What I Want Most Of AllLuisa A. Igloria
A friend once told me, you know those ads for missing persons that you get in the mail, or printed on the sides of milk cartons? I bet not all of those people go missing by accident. I bet some of them park their cars as usual in the garage, bring in the paper and the groceries, telephone the doctor to confirm the appointment for the youngest child’s next visit, check the window in the hallway, the one that always sticks and lets in rain water that collects in a puddle on the carpet— Then they leave their car keys on the counter, take just a few things: perhaps a knapsack, one change of clothes, a water bottle; walk out the door, down to the bus stop, ride away across the state line and keep going without looking back. The hands of the clock are moving now. At fast food places, people are queuing up for lunch. They punch their time cards at the end of the day, a few hours after school buses file in a yellow line to distribute children across the city blocks. Later, pictures will flash on the late night news. Much, much later, even decades later, who would think anything extraordinary of the dark-haired woman in a faded raincoat and canvas sneakers, backpacking for the first time across Europe.
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