The Engine We’ll Always Run to the Window For
The quiet heartbreak of moving away from the sound that always felt like home.
It’s a funny thing, learning the exact sound of a specific engine.
Over the last six years, I’ve come to know what a firetruck sounds like coming down our road without any sirens—just that heavy, throaty diesel rumble that instantly sets off a wave of excitement in our house. We run straight to the front window to wave, knowing it usually means my husband—my son’s dad—is driving by.
Even on the days he wasn't on tour, we’d still race to the window. We just wanted to make sure Station 25 knew they were loved.
Over the last month, we’ve been packing up and emptying this house as we prepare for a new chapter. It’s a great new home, but it’s one where the firetruck won’t drive by a few times a week (or a few times a day). We won’t get to catch those random drive-by waves, and we won’t hear his station crew lay on the horn because they know this is where “Capt” lives.
I was fine moving our stuff. I was fine scrubbing every nook and cranny for the new owners. I was comforted knowing we’d build sweet new memories in a new space.
What caught me off guard were the tears. Standing there that day, realizing it was the final time I’d ever sprint across the house to catch a glimpse of the engine out the living room window —and knowing just how much we’re going to miss these moments.
Thank you, 25s, for every hello, every honk, every wave, and for making us feel so connected. You’ll always be one of my favorite parts of this chapter.
An update since writing this on July 14th: 25s already made their first official appearance at the new house! I think my heart skipped a beat. The visits won't happen nearly as often in this new neighborhood, but I love that they still know where to find us.