Leaving
Natalie Niblack


I 've got this uncontrollable thing inside. I don't understand it or know how to really explain it. But it gets me into a whole lot of trouble with what my mother would call the "wrong sorts of people." Life ought to be straight. It ought to be clean cut. It is all mapped out for me, really. I got this house in a nice neighborhood, I got kids, I got a husband who could be better, but could be a lot worse. He's got a job, I don't. I don't have to work. I don't have to worry, don't have to think much.

Maybe you'd call it ecstasy. Or that's what I feel when I'm there. It's what I don't feel when I'm at home in my life. I don't think I could in my neighborhood- there's no room for it. Too many people wouldn't understand; they'd be frightened. Maybe it's hormones and not God at all, I'm that age when things start to change, after all. I don't really know; I just know I need it, like a drunk with a bottle. That's why I'm here where no one I know would recognize me, in this field with all of these folks swaying and singing and full of the spirit, and that man up there, arms spread wide, just glowing against the corroded metal.

I close my eyes, let it all fill me up, and then I'm there, where no one can touch me.



First published: February 14, 1999
comments: knobs@iceflow.com