Up at four this morning, only to learn it was actually three. My two-year-old son was also restless and started calling for me shortly after I got up. The embers in the fireplace were still red from last night’s fire, so I threw in some fresh logs and they are now gently blazing. It is as still as the middle of the night can be; the only sounds in the cabin are my fingertips on the keyboard, the occasional crackle of the fire and my son’s raspy breathing, sprinkled now and then with a whimper. Something is bothering him tonight and I wonder if it might be our upcoming move. I took him by the local airfield yesterday afternoon and we saw a small single-engine plane take off into the Autumn sky. I told him we would soon be riding in a plane, traveling to our new home. I’ve been talking with him about the move since we made the decision, trying to prepare him for it, for the leaving of familiar things and places. He has been curled up in my arms tonight, not sleeping really, just dozing, cuddling, and holding onto me and me to him. This move has stirred up so many emotions, movement does that, it causes you to make choices about what to save and what to leave behind, and those choices aren’t limited to clothing and books and mementos, but to people, relationships, expectations, dreams … things that keep you awake at night.