Bug-out Bag

We packed nuts, dried fruit, canned Spam. We packed pepper
spray and playing cards. We packed passports. We packed matches
and a hatchet, never mind that we’d never built a fire or killed
for food. We packed water and waterproof ponchos. Whistles
and wet wipes. In three inside pockets, we hid cash. We packed masks
and meds and a bleed kit. Blankets and binoculars. We packed
a battery-powered radio, but forgot batteries. Sharpies
but no paper. We would have to write on the backs of our hands.
Because we packed toothpaste, but not toothbrushes, we’d have
to use our fingers. Screwdrivers, pliers, hammer, saw. Didn’t know
what we’d need them for, but that was the point. We packed maps
and a compass. Headlamps and hard hats. Duct tape and toilet paper.
We packed spare eyeglasses. We packed a backpacking stove
we had no idea how to use. We’d never been camping.
We had bad backs. We forgot to pack iodine and rope
and antidepressants. We didn’t own guns or gas masks.
We used to roll our eyes at people who wore camo and geeked out
over the best Bowie knife and how much ammo to bring,
until one day we became plebe versions of them, waiting for the shit
to hit the fan. When it finally did one winter night, phone alerts,
sirens, bed-headed neighbors wandering our street in slippers,
we didn’t panic. We took our time, which goes against the point
of a bug-out bag. We ditched hard hats for a hacky sack and a stack
of letters our dead had written us when alive and every heart-shaped
card our son had ever made for us and his first baby bib and a scoop
of our dog’s ashes in a zip lock. We left behind the hatchet
and maps and brought instead bread, wine, cheese, and the strange joy
of no hope. We would drive wherever and park and picnic
in the back of our truck. We would fall asleep to earworm pop
we swore in better times we’d rather die than ever listen to again.