We would.

We could change our names you and I. We could.

And then leave because there was nothing left for us here.

We'd take one backpack and fill it with nothing. Maybe one granola bar. but maybe not. Even that might be too much.

We couldn't take any money, because it'd be too heavy.

And we couldn't bring my camera, because they'd find us.

An extra pair of socks can be worn, not carried.

And we'd leave. With a single backpack strapped up on your back.

I would miss them, and you would miss them, but we'd say "we'll come back here someday."

Both of us knowing we never would.

We could walk. Then take turns carrying each other. When we needed to cross the ocean, we'd joke about swimming, then consider it silently. Then we'd ask for a plane ticket. But none would fall from the sky. So we'd ask for two plane tickets. one for me, and one for you. But nothing would come. So we'd ask for two boat tickets. one for you, and one for me. And a elderly woman in a fancy car would offer us 500 dollars to drive her to the coast. So we would, knowing that we now had two boat tickets. While we drive her, we'd find out her name was June, and she had lost her loves. And we'd tell her our story, of how we gave up our loves. for this. And we'd tell her about our Dad. How we learn more about Him, when we give up everything, and keep moving. And June would understand. June would know, because she needed to see our Dad by the ocean. the sounds of crashing water, the smell of dry tears, and the wind, oh the wind. The wind alone could blow away memories tumble-weeding around June's kindred mind.

We would thank June and tell her we'd see her at our Dad's house someday. And she'd ask for our names and we'd say we were brothers, or sisters, or maybe married, or young children but then realize we'd left ourselves behind, and we didn't know the answer to that question anymore. Then, she'd name us something that both of us would eventually forget.

Then we'd get on our boat and curtsy and bow to the land we'd never see again except in dreams and memories. And the ocean might stand up and clap its hands. Or it might not.

And we wouldn't be able to sleep when the moon was barely out, because the stars would be too distracting. And I'd tell you my explanation behind for the stars. That our world at night was just a black beach ball that our Dad had poked holes in, and nights like these His light shined through each tiny pinprick. And you'd think I was crazy; and I'd tell you that I didn't remember what the real reason was behind the stars anyway, because that other world was too far away. And you'd agree, that other world was too far gone.

Yes, we could leave, friend. We would forget our names, and keep moving toward our Dad.