Portland, Here We Come?

The most important decision looming for Jackson and myself is where to live. If Jackson had his choice, we'd stay right where we are, in the secure little San Jose neighborhood that's the only place he's ever known, in the school district he loves, with the friends he cherishes. Alas, for a multitude of reasons that start with the need to get out of this house and the ghostly past that emanates from it, and end with a desire to greatly reduce my financial obligations, that's just not possible, or even advisable. So I've been grappling with places that make sense, weighing our connections here against the possibilities elsewhere. And as the time for this decision approaches, one candidate is emerging from the crowd and making more sense to me every day: Portland, Oregon. We have family and friends there, it's easy to get to and from, and I could buy a house outright with the equity I now have.

But moving is a scary proposition. It's not like I'm 25 and can squeeze everything I own into a Honda Accord hatchback any more. I've got a whole house full of stuff, and two people's lives that are rooted here. If Jackson hates it there, I'll have been responsible for adding yet another traumatic development to his childhood, and face the potential for driving a wedge in our relationship. I'm also acutely aware that now is the time for a bit of risk. We have every reason to make a move, and there's no second adult to negotiate with. I can do my job from anywhere, and I could very well end up with a mortgage-free house AND a tidy little nestegg leftover. What's more, we'd be moving to a more manageable city that still offers big-city culture, world-class cuisine, incredible natural surroundings (including great nearby options for snowboarding and river-rafting), and affordable flights to most of the Western U.S.

So even though it all feels very right, why, oh why, do I keep feeling like I'm getting ready to do something terrible to Jackson?

***

As I was writing this entry, Jackson called me from his bedroom with a question. "Daddy, if you were going to die, and I could be brave and save you, but it would mean I'd die, would you want me to do that?" I don't think I have to say what my answer was--it's not even important anyway. Every time I hear Jackson ask a question like that, a big piece of me mourns. It's an ominous reminder that he carries the stench of death in his psyche, and I worry that it could become an obsession. More of that wonderful legacy Rox left us.