Away and Away, Then To: A Memoir

By Susan Rukeyser

The placenta blocked my exit. I was lifted from my mother just in time. London, 1968—bound for my father's USA. The month between Martin and Bobby; I imagine everyone sad.

In green towns outside New York City: art, ice-skating, horses, dogs. Sisters. My father was on TV so strangers shook his hand.

In the 80s, darkness rooted. I did my best: Flashdance sweatshirts, Brooke Shields eyebrows. Wealth mortified me. I got high, I let boys.

I searched through charcoal and paint. I wrote, then doubted myself to silence.

I married three men (not at once). Raised a human, better than me. Life tapped her watch when planes hit towers, when cancer stole my dad. I published a novel that said what I meant. I moved away and away, then to: a chosen home, the Mojave, and exhaled.