Still Warm in My Bag | The Only Answer I Had

The grass was still cold that morning. My mother didn't ask where the bus was going. The old man at the stop didn't ask if I'd come back. My sister was too sleepy to say more than my name. Nobody asked out loud, but everyone sent me off in their own way. I still don't know if I'm leaving for good. But I know which road I chose. --- The grass is cold before the sun, my mother's kettle already humming, she didn't ask where the bus was going, just packed warm bread into my bag. I'm walking out while the light is soft, red dust settling on my shoes, I don't know yet if I'm leaving for good, or just for now, like she always says I do. The neighbor's goats are already loud, someone's radio hums from a window, my sister waves from the doorway, too sleepy to say more than my name. I'm walking out while the light is soft, red dust settling on my shoes, I don't know yet if I'm leaving for good, or just for now, like she always says I do. The bus stop is just a bent piece of shade, an old man there remembers my father, he doesn't ask if I'll come back, just moves his bag so I can sit down. My mother's bread is still warm in my bag, that's the only answer I've got. I'm walking out while the light is soft, red dust settling on my shoes, I don't know yet if I'm leaving for good, but I know which road I choose.