Six Inch Squares

Most mornings were peaceful.  She would set her coffee pot for brew the night before and pre-pack her car with school supplies for her children.  Before waking the kids, she often read her Bible at the kitchen table with only the light from the stove. 

The last few months were far removed from these mornings.  She had been taking different routes on her daily errands and this morning she had decided to pack clothes and medicine for her children in place of their backpacks.  Her cell phone was stuffed under her left arm in her bra so her husband wouldn't take and "dismantle" it as he had been threatening.  Under her right breast was a small amount of cash.  Deep in the front pockets of her jeans, which she had been sleeping in for over a week, were her car keys, a pocket knife, her driver's license and a credit card.  Her can of mace was at the bottom of her purse.  She usually slept only a few hours a night.  Now she stayed awake, lying still, afraid she would move too soon.  She was preparing, getting "mission ready."

Six inch squares.  This was her military training.  She was folding the tiny t-shirts into six inch squares and aligning them in a small stack.  "Flush and grounded" was the term the Air Force used when stacking clothes in a drawer.  She automatically stowed the clothes in the duffle bag in the trunk of her car in this military fashion.  The car was parked in the garage, the lights off, morning peaking through dusty blinds.  The duffle bag was large enough for her to crawl into and was already packed with the nebulizer, a machine that blew air through a clear tube to a small cup of medicine, creating a mist of steroids to be inhaled, allowing her son to breathe.  Tucked next to the neb machine was the pacemaker tester, a device that hooked to her other son's chest and allowed a hospital in Chicago to monitor his heart.  She needed enough clothing and supplies for herself and her three sons.  Enough for a week.

Her feet sounded like wet splats with each step across the concrete as she padded back and forth.  She could hear her own breath, crackly and shallow as she tried to keep quiet and not stir the children.  She looked over her shoulder, and shimmied against the door post, pausing to listen before entering the house.  Another training technique to "check your six o'clock", searching for the enemy should he be plotting another attack. 

"Part the sea, God, please," her prayer became a common request.

She had remembered to brush her teeth, but had forgotten to comb her hair.