You don't come home to Seattle. You drive straight to Ellensburg. I found this land five years ago. It was confusing to other people. No trees. Brush that pokes and scratches. Ticks. Rattle snakes are around. You looked slightly confused. You thought you'd humor me. Remember the bike you bought me for the truck? It was red, from Walmart. I'd never use it, it was a waste. Then I rode it every day. That bike could have been a hint.
First came the barn. No one called us back except John. He was working on another barn. Neither one of us with any barn building experience but the air inside John's barn was cool as a moat. Inside, the barn stood unfettered. We signed on: John-Sloan-Rodeo-Roper.
The well: 600 feet and only 2 gallons a minute.
The septic.
That took care of the line-of-credit.
Then we thought about trailers, modules, prefab. While we were camped in the barn overnight, I called John. He looked rough. I wondered if he was drinking. It turned out to be cancer. He was getting treatment.
The house started nine months ago.
And you were sad to leave this house. I am sad to leave this house. I've never lived in a house so long. Twenty years. The yard-guy, Mr Le, hugs me the last time.
I think that you will come home and help but you are busy making money, driving the truck. I start yelling on the phone. When are you coming home?
Seven days before I move, we move, you come to Ellensburg.
Thirty years of trucking is over as you step down from the truck.
I call and ask when you're coming home here to Seattle. You don't know exactly. There's a lot to do. You've moved to Ellensburg.