With my dad behind the wheel of the U-Haul and my ‘95 Celica in tow, we headed east for that 1,800-mile trip. One way, for me.
The golden rolling hills beneath the Sierras, cathedrals of redwood groves, and sprinkles of poppies outside our windows gave way to the flat stretches of drought-cracked dirt and saguaro statues of Arizona. And those eventually gave way to spiky agave, red yucca, and clusters of prickly pear cacti sprouting from West Texas soil.
We said little on that three-day trip. The low hum of radio stations coming in and out of our range filled the truck cab air with what neither of us could speak out loud. I buzzed with the excitement of a fresh start—a larger, more youthful city and a grad program with big promises. I avoided thoughts of what faded behind us in those side mirrors.
My dad focused on the road, careful driving, bringing his only daughter—the one who was more like him than any other person in the world—to her new home. A new life, far from the one he’d given her.
I inhaled an easier breath when we entered Hill Country; the dry, dusty air of West Texas replaced with dense trails and parks packed with trees—not as tall as the redwoods I grew up with, but the live oaks, cedar elms, and sycamores told me I’d have enough oxygen in this new home.
Always on a tight budget, we got Wendy’s for dinner that night after we arrived at my new apartment, a wide open space with not enough belongings to fill every corner. With each bite of my cheesy baked potato, I tried to find the words that would never be enough—the thank yous and I’ll miss yous I had collected over every mile he had driven me.
