This was sometime in Spring of 1993. Cristin would have turned 11 years old. We drove together in my Acura of those times, west on 18th, towards her soccer practice somewhere near Churchill.
The sky was dark, threatening, rain coming soon. Cristin’s soccer practice was going to happen in the rain.
“Dad,” she said, breaking one of those comfortable silences Cristin and I share, “Isn’t Oregon great?”
And I knew, or felt, then that the move to Oregon was okay. Cristin hadn’t suffered. Which was a great relief.
And that is a treasured moment.