When my mother left my father the second time, my Easy Bake oven flew out the back of the truck and was left lying in the pasture where it landed. I wonder if the cows were surprised to find it, not quite as dramatic as a house falling on a witch, but what would they know?
It hurt my feelings that she saw it go and didn’t stop to see if it could be salvaged, but as a symbol of our shattered home, it warranted leaving and her callous laughter. It was her war story, with her as its hero making a daring escape after a close call.
When I left my father’s house for the third time in the 7th grade, I lost my magic. I stopped seeing the spirit world with its mysteries. Invisible worlds inside carpets of moss, around the curve in the rabbit hole, in between walls or through the gaps in current time, these places were lost. I refocused my eyes to see what was coming ahead of me.
When I left my mother’s house for the last time, the day after my high school graduation, I lost my powerlessness. I lost pieces of memories of guilt and shame and of bearing witness. Without a backward glance, I got busy losing and finding and losing my rage at all that humans were and were not.