I gave away my NYC apartment today.  I waited for as long as I could, in hopes I would get to a place of clarity, of where packing up the 10021 would be thrilling, exciting, and  all too obvious.  But instead I cried before I sent the email to my landlord, notifying him I would be out in mere days.  Instead I remembered how that roof was there when my prior home was closed off to me – how the meager four white plates and four white bowls fit perfectly on the shelves, and the patio tempted an urban green thumb.  How my friends sat, allen wrenches in hand, creating kingdoms from Ikea hardwood kits….and I replaced old framed photos with new memories.

I can’t put much else into words and will just remember that:

You couldn’t understand about how much the small space means to me – how I once hated the very walls and instead grew to love the silence on the other side upon turning the key. How those brick walls became MY walls, decorated with my own photographs, straightened by my hands, and pointed to when I told the stories of their authorship.  Where Easter grass showed up nine months later, and my exterminator always stay a little too long, because “you have the nicest place in the building.”  I just can’t write it justice.


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