Chapter 8 - The Move West
Packing up thirty years of a life is an exercise in sacred remembrance.
For three weeks, Emmett and I systematically sorted through the attic, the basement, and the closets of our suburban home. Every box held a story—Phoebe’s childhood drawings, Martha’s handwritten recipe cards, old family photo albums bound in faded velvet, and Margot’s baby clothes stored in cedar trunks.
We didn't throw away the history; we carefully packed it into wooden crates lined with acid-free paper, ensuring that every piece of our past would travel safely with us into our future.
On our final night in the house, the rooms were empty, our voices echoing softly off the bare hardwood floors.
Margot sat on her sleeping bag in the middle of the living room, holding her velvet rabbit, watching the moonlight stream through the tall front windows.
Emmett and I sat beside her on the floor, sharing a pizza out of a cardboard box.
“It feels quiet,” Margot whispered softly.
“It is quiet, sweetie,” Emmett said, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Unfurnished houses are always quiet. But tomorrow, we fill a new house with noise.”
“Grandpa,” Margot asked, turning her head to look at me, “will Mommy know where we are going?”
I reached out, taking her small hand into mine, feeling the incredible warmth of her youth.
“Your mommy lives in your heart, Margot,” I told her gently, pointing a finger at her chest. “And hearts don't get lost when you move across the country. Wherever you go, she’s already there.”
Margot smiled, resting her head against my shoulder, completely satisfied with the answer.
The next morning, the moving trucks pulled away from the curb.
We climbed into Emmett’s SUV—Emmett driving, me in the passenger seat, and Margot in the back with her drawing pad—and pulled out of the driveway for the very last time.
We didn't look back with sorrow. We looked forward at the open highway stretching out toward the western horizon.
The three-day road trip across the heartland of America was pure magic. We stopped at roadside diners, visited national parks, bought cheesy souvenirs, and sang along to old country songs on the radio.
By the time we crossed the border into Oregon, the landscape transformed into breathtaking vistas of towering emerald Douglas firs, roaring rivers, and majestic snow-capped mountains touching the blue sky.
When we turned down the long gravel driveway of our new property in the Willamette Valley, Margot gasped out loud.
The house was a magnificent two-story cedar home surrounded by four acres of lush green meadows. To the left stood a broad timber barn—my new workshop—and behind the main house sat a sunlit two-bedroom guest cottage surrounded by wild lavender and blooming hydrangeas.
Margot threw open the SUV door before Emmett even turned off the ignition, sprinting across the grass toward the front porch.
“IT’S HUGE!” she shouted, her voice echoing joyfully through the mountain air.
Emmett stepped out of the vehicle, took a deep breath of the pine-scented Pacific air, and looked at me with tears shining in his eyes.
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“We made it, Dad,” Emmett whispered.
“We made it, son,” I smiled, picking up my cane and stepping out into the paradise we had built together.
