Mexico

            Once, when I was in fourth or fifth grade, for the last week in November and the beginning of December, my parents wouldn’t let me go into the guest bedroom.  I figured that was just where they were keeping the Hannukah presents, and I don’t like ruining surprises, so I kept out.

            At 4:30 one morning in early December, my lights flicked on.  My father was holding a camera and wearing a sombrero.  My mother had just put some mariachi music into the stereo by my bed.  Get up and pack whatever you want to read on the plane ride, they said.  We’re leaving for Mexico in twenty minutes.

            I hadn’t been allowed in the guest bedroom because that was where the suitcases were.  My parents had been planning this for months and just decided to keep it a secret.  I don’t know how, but they did.  I didn’t really believe them that it was actually happening until there was sand between my toes and sun on my face.  It was probably the most amazing surprise of my life, though.  I want every day of my life to be like that.  Wake up.  We’re leaving.  Things are about to get a whole lot better.

            That’s not how life works, of course.  The week of running away is a one shot-type deal and now I’m old enough that there are consequences if I leave in the middle of the night.  Some day, though, I want to do that again.  I want to shake myself awake in the morning, tell myself get up.  Get your things.  We’re leaving.  Things are about to get better.