Weird, gray, rainy day. I'm doing laundry, which you wouldn't normally think of as a melancholy activity. I can feel myself getting ready to miss this place, though, and it sucks.
I'm thirty-two and so far I have moved, on average, more than once a year for every year of my life. This apartment put a real dent in my stats, though. Depending on how you count it, there's only one place in my life I've lived in longer. I expected to feel panicky, but instead I'm just sad.
Don't get me wrong--I'm very excited about the next part of my life. I'm excited about our house, and about living with spook and Lizbeth, and about negotiating the hijinks of our many, many cats. I look forward to filling our home with new memories and soaking the walls with laughter. But this strange, beautiful, work-in-progress apartment has been my refuge, and it's harder to leave it than I would have guessed.
Growing is just being broken open, and healing again around a new space you couldn't encompass before. If home is where the heart is, I'll take it with me.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Moving can be tough. Despite my home being broken in every sense of the word, moving away from the place I spent 20 years of my life was difficult...although it's not like we really chose to move. So look at the bright side: things are going to be great, you're going to have a house, and your old place will never belong to anyone but you, since nobody can change your memories of it.
By the way, how are you feeling? Air gettin into them lungs or no?
Post a Comment