I climbed over my big brother onto the pickup seat next to my dad. This was it, the last load. When we left this time we would not be coming back.
The family had lived in other homes. My siblings told lively stories about the Pearson house though I had no memory of it. This was the only home I had known, the house on Cedar Street. I loved this house.
I hadn't wanted to get in the truck. Hadn't wanted to leave. But when you are four no one asks your opinion. You just have to go along.
As dad starts the truck I swing around backwards and climb up on my knees. I ball my hands into angry fists and rest my chin on them with my elbows propped on the back of the seat. I never want to forget this place that I love. I will keep it in my sights for as long as I possibly can memorizing every detail of it.
The engine sputters and we pull away. One block on Cedar then a right on West Street. Not a long time to keep it in my sights. It doesn't matter much anyway. It is hard to see through clouds of tears.
This is my earliest memory.