My mind is a flutter as I pick up the final box of my packed belongings. I loved this apartment, with its white crown molding curling at every corner and the strong scent of pistachio pastries waking me up every morning from the bakery situated directly below.
I know I was never all that safe here, but most cities usually aren’t. Though it always seemed naive to feel safe solely because of a lock; especially when the sun would carry its warm rays all the way in here – securing everything by staining it aglow.
I made friends and I lost friends in this very living room. I had boyfriends and I lost them here as well. People grew older as we wasted our time talking of nonsense in between these four close and bruised walls. Yet, I knew those nights were always close to me, at least in feeling. Like the way our laughter always seemed to be tucked away in the vents, circulating good energy every time I turned on the fan.
I’ll miss the terrible way the ceiling leaked in the corner of my bedroom, rhythmically tapping in my old kitchen pot. The lonely sound of independent droplets dripping one by one, till my swollen eyes shut for sleep.
Now it’s time to say good-bye, which I do in a whisper while shutting off the light for my last time. I turn around and there he is, waiting to carry the box. Waiting to to put it in his parked car. Waiting to unpack it in our new house.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ll miss my independence most.
by: Rose Clifford