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# Escape
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/escape/
- Published: 2026-05-22T11:01:29.000Z
- Updated: 2026-05-22T11:01:29.000Z
- Description: “Escape” a vacation at home, written Friday, May 22, poem 142 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "A Tropical Escape," by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Dry Humor, Generational, Humor, Poems, Unserious, Adventure, Afternoon, BEEF, Car, Cherry, Escape, Friday, Grocery, Honey, Ice Cream, Macaroni, May, Memorial Day, Memorial Day Weekend, Oat milk, Passionfruit, Pizza, Pizza Shoppe, Shop, Spindrift, Spring, Tea, Tropical, Village, Widow's Bay, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

Work lets me off at Noon!  
It's their 3-day holiday weekend gift to us.  
I could get used to this place.  
I wrap up my duties by one, close the lid.  
  
Push out of my chair,   
take numb legs for a stroll   
through the house.  
  
Gather my bearings as a   
newly free human   
with hours on my side.  
  
Crawl in bed and watch   
the last two episodes   
of *BEEF*, limited series,   
first season.  
  
The plot, the sound effects  
the dialogue, the sets, the costumes.  
The wondering in the desert.  
The melding of realities and fates.  
The inescapability of karma.  
It's thrilling, it's deranged;   
I love it.  
  
But then, abruptly, it's over.  
Credits roll.  
I shake my head;  
my limbs are numb again.  
  
Still have time to kill;  
what a strange feeling.  
Decide to be nice   
to my soon-to-be-home child.  
  
Because unlike many of her classmates,  
we're not hitting up Dulles International Airport  
— *in these Tariff Times?* 
*Thank you, no!* —  
for a long weekend of   
jet-setting travel   
and time zone twister.  
  
Instead, I prepare   
a list of errands that   
can masquerade   
as afternoon adventures:  
pick up some Girl Scout badges  
grab some groceries;  
figure out a dinner plan  
and see where the   
rain-slick streets carry us.  
  
Hear the front latch jiggle;  
convince the kid to meet me in the car.  
We wind our way out of the hood  
on roads scattered with fallen branches  
and clusters of acid lime-green oak leaves.  
  
We drive to the village  
buy impromptu unnecessaries   
at the local market:  
Cherry Spindrift, and passionfruit, too.  
Frozen macaroni balls   
and marshmallows, jumbo,  
three vats of ice cream,   
one oat mylk for him.  
  
Next:  
a series of staccato   
questions, hers, and answers, mine:  
  
"Can I get Medjool dates?" She asks.  
 "Sure." I reply.  
"Can I get cookies?"  
 "Fine."  
"Can I get blackberries?"  
 "As long as you eat them!"  
"Can I get fancy tea?"  
 "As long as you share!"  
  
Lightning Round:  
"Can I get a frozen pizza?"  
 "No."  
She begins to frown.  
 "Not here...  
 "Why don't you order a fresh one?"  
  
Her eyes blink.  
I urge her, again, to order pizza.  
"Whatever you want, here's my card."   
She looks as me with shock,   
I am not normally This Mom.  
  
But I'm feeling generous, untethered.  
It's a rainy Friday in May.  
Let's extract the magic from it somehow.  
I send her ahead to the corner shoppe.  
  
I pay and haul bags through the downpour.  
I hoist wet sacks into my trunk.  
I drive from one lot to another,   
to be closer to her.  
  
We wait in a booth   
away from the cashier  
the wafting aromas of oregano   
and fire-baked dough   
permeating our nostrils.  
  
When it's time, we splash through   
heavy raindrops to the vehicle.  
She positions the hot pie atop her thighs,  
the one she chose with mushrooms   
and olives and sausage balls,  
and she sighs, reverently.  
  
It's the little things, I think.  
Maybe I'm onto something.  
  
\= = =  
  
It may be the official start of summer  
but we're feeling winter goblin energy.  
  
We pull in to home,  
change into PJs.  
Open chocolates,   
rustling noisy plastic   
and foil wrappers.  
  
We make tea,   
squeeze honey.  
find several blankets and pillows;  
burrow into the sectional in the den.  
  
We couch rot until Dad arrives  
upon which we use   
our sedentary siren calls  
to lure him in to our couch trap.  
  
He joins us in flannel jams  
and a soft tee.  
We don't leave the couch   
nor the bright screen until bedtime.   
  
While the rains pelts away at  
our roof overhead  
we escape into the melodrama   
and mysteries of *Widow Bay*.  
  
We may not have left town,  
but we have made our own escape.