My last functioning memory in Houston is the smell of star jasmine. Does it matter whether that was weeks or months ago now? It reminds me of that instant in spring before everything gasps, somehow parched in that moist broiler heat, and we begin that feeling of enduring summer.
I write from the road; where we are now is not so much a place as a state of being. We sold our house with plans to return to Texas when our Great American Roadtrip is over. I will continue to work remotely, as I did from our little house that is now someone else’s little house.
This summer in Texas, then in the South, has been fertile ground for lifelong memories for our children, I hope. We knew there was some risk in displacing them, disrupting their routines, and saying, “We are doing this” to them instead of asking.
So far, though, their bliss on the beach, the couch time with family, and the playground with new friends (babies of mom’s old friend) have shored up our hopes.
We have a long way to go—we are still in the South but headed northeast, and those last memories in our house, even that last night, are still fresh for me. Yet, I know the sky of my memory will haze up, as I rarely have palpable memory unaided by photos. And, I remain optimistic, even if a small part of me is nervous if we made the right decision (we did) to sell our house and try something new because we could. We did it, behb.