Remember: the U-Haul backing slowly down the alley beside our old brick apartment building, my husband at the wheel, and me, breathing deep, trying to memorize the scent of the Iowa air, on the last day I ever smelled it. Pollen, sticky: scent of sunlight, like skin after camping, hint of sweat mixed with herbs, mixed with hot calluses and baby-fine hair, singed. Cut grass and melting tar on a hot Iowa afternoon and beneath that, a note of old stone, the kind that crumbles apart on porch steps, the kind you only find in the Midwest. My husband turned the truck onto Dubuque Street, and it wasnt long before we hit Interstate 80, headlights pointed west. Remember: raising my arms and cheering at the Nebraska border we were officially ahead of schedule, outside the Iowa state line and never going back. The roads on my Triple-A travel guide marked red to chart our progress, like blue veins infused with fresh oxygen; new life. And when we hit Eastern Oregon, and the truck teetered dangerously at the edges of high roads, I listened to the motor as it strained.