For the past ten days, I had made the worthy attempt to condense my life from a four-bedroom, 1800 sq. foot house to a tiny 380 sq. foot city apartment. My parents were instrumental helping me pack, aiding me in making hard decisions as to what to keep, what to store and what to donate. My living room because an organized mess of box piles and narrow walkways in the attempt to divide what was was coming with me and what was staying behind. A few days before my departure, I rented a U-haul truck and with the help of my my buddy Garrett, loaded it up with my couch, tables, boxes, files and miscellaneous artwork to drop off at the Storage unit that I rented for the things I wouldn't have room for in Portland. The unit loaded up extremely efficiently (it was like playing a life-sized game of Tetris) and before we knew it, the door was secured and locked, my possessions stored away in darkness until I returned to claim it again, whenever that would be.
The night before I was to leave, I took a few silent moments, lit a fire in the chiminea and leaned back in one of my patio chairs, eyes closed and attempting to take in the effects of my last night in Cleveland. I then, with Kino by my side, opened up a bottle of Guinness and poured myself a glass. That bottle, the last to be leftover from a six pack I was given as a housewarming present by my buddy Greg and his wife Katie, was a ritual I was looking forward to for years. The first bottle was opened shortly after I moved in, toasting to the success of finally being a homeowner. I told myself that night that I would save the last bottle for the night before I was leave. Here I was, eight years later, fulfilling that promise to myself and savoring every last drop...even if eight-year old Guinness actually does taste like cat urine.
Kino's last moments at the house were strangely lethargic. I honestly believe that he was fully aware of the fact that he was saying good-bye to pretty much the only reality he's ever known. That last morning, I would find him wandering through the backyard, occasionally laying in the sunlit grass and absorbing each bit of stimuli that the delicate breeze around him brought his way. It was as if he was trying to savor those last few moments, most likely knowing that he'd never graze over that grass again.
Just having turned an active nine years old, Kino was officially in the senior years of his life. The rest of his days would probably be spent in Oregon, a transition that I'm sure he'll be fully content with once we got ourselves settled. This would turn out to be as much as an adventure for him as it would be for me. After all, how many dogs are offered the opportunity to see our country from coast to coast? His farewell to our house would turn out to be as bittersweet as mine.
Just as everything was ready to be loaded into the moving truck, some of my closest friends in Cleveland filtered in and out of the house throughout the day, offering their final farewells and best wishes upon my life in Portland. I could tell that they were all genuinely happy for me and each made a comment about how it would be great to come out and pay me a visit, as most of them had never been to that area of the country. After getting one last photo with the guys, they each, one by one, shook my hand, gave me a brotherly hug and went on their way. In the hours that followed, I would say my farewells to a few other close friends before the movers arrived and started to work on making sure my things all got packed away and off to Portland in one piece.
With nearly everything loaded away into the truck and the majority of the moving papers signed, the last few minutes at the house suddenly became fairly emotional. My car was packed. Kino was waiting patiently on his side of the car, made up of a hefty pile of cushions and blankets that ran the full length of the cabin. The moving truck was getting ready to pull away. And my Dad and I got to the point where we had to say good-bye. I couldn't get the words out. He had this look on his face...it was devastating. He looked as if he were loosing his best friend and was only able to get out a difficult six words;
"I'm going to miss my boy."
I crumbled. I couldn't help it, I just crumbled. My dad is among the best of my friends and the recent years I've spent in Cleveland have only brought us closer. Gone would be the monthly home improvement projects and happy hour beers that we would share with one another. Gone would be the random visits and impromptu dinners, when one of us needed a pick-me-up from the other. Gone would be the moments of reflection and physical pats on the back. I didn't know when I would see him again and the reality of these circumstances had hit me full force. Whatever composure I had held together throughout the day melted off in an instant and I found that saying good-bye to my dad was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life. I was going to miss him like hell.
Moments later, after having forced myself into the car, I would see my dad's reflection in my rearview mirror; silently waving good-bye, tears still running down his face. I will never forget that image as long as I live.
A strange thing happened then, however. I turned the corner. And then I turned another. Then another. My dad was no longer in my rearview, gradually replaced by my neighborhood. Then Cleveland. A few hours later...Ohio. I was on my way west, and my first stop for the evening would be Chicago, where I would stay with my buddy Brad and his wife Josie for the evening before continuing towards the Dakotas the following morning. The date was May 5, 2011 and I was officially on the road to change my life forever.
No comments:
Post a Comment