homebody

There we were, standing near the washer and dryer in the back hall behind his condo---I holding scrap pieces of plywood from one of his handy Nils projects, and he leading the way and opening doors for my passage---when he uttered the words that would save me from living out of a backpack and using my poor little Chevy for an intermediary between my apt and his condo: "I think it's time you move in with me." I must have appeared shocked or pained, because he stepped back and wondered aloud, what, wrong time? No, no I reassured him. The pained stare on my face was from holding the scrap wood as it dug into my grasp. "Can I put the wood down first?" Embrace and further gushy details...

Yes, this is the image I recall when thinking about the moment he asked me to move into his place. A place he worked damn hard to attain, and had pretty much been sharing with me since the first day he clicked open the lock with his very own keys. Every coat of paint, every counter renewed and cabinet built was completed after we had shared our thoughts about the update. A clean canvas of crisp white walls now flush a deep blush that matches the shade atop the first lamp I ever decoupaged---a gift for him on the first of his bdays we shared together. His open loft space was soon transformed into a one bedroom after he built a wall with sliding barn door on an industrial track, to tuck me away into slumber while the late night crowd hung on till morning. To have been included in every step of the way was always such an honor for me. Then, to be asked to live with him in this space, well, that was a relief and blessing all at once.

Then, the look of utter disbelief on his face when all of my possessions barricaded his living room from the bedroom, well that was scary and comical. How would we ever find a spot for everything together? At first I approached moving his things around very delicately. But that just didn't work, took too much time. He told me to do what I wanted. What a relief. So, I organized Jen bookshelves and dresser drawers, stocked my Cali vacation wines on a shelf, and found a sneaky corner on the side of the love seat for my craft supplies.


Now, close to two years later, I'm six bags of clothes and one bag of shoes lighter and much more organized. And, now, as we contemplate our next potential move, whenever it may be, I can't help but reflect on the years we've grown together in this space. We've been sharing it since day 1, and to think of leaving it is bittersweet. A move to the burbs is the next step and would offer us both peace and less stressful parking woes. But, how will I remember the days we spent here, just the two of us, together? As we browse houses and fabricate the lives we could lead in them, we do so from the safety of this known and comfortable home. But there are certain things you just know and feel right about in life. Like when to leave the city. I never thought I'd want to leave, I've been here since I was 17. And back then, the ever-changing excitement it offered kept me going. But, now, somehow, I feel at a standstill. I no longer crave the fast pace, enjoy elbow-to-elbow barrooms, or feel aflutter more often than annoyed. Some things are for sure. I will not miss heavy-footed upstairs neighbor and his temporary tenants, or cleaning everyone else's lint from the dryer every single time I use it, or a honk of a horn the second a light turns green, or being yelled and sneered at by a scalper because I'm standing to close to him on the crowded sidewalk before a Red Sox game. I never used to understand why people would move out of the city to the burbs. How boring. But now, when I can see the stars in a darkened sky, when I can smell the twinge of sweetness in country air, when I can let Sage out to lounge in the sun instead of leashing him to the dog park, when I can step into my garden from the porch. Well, now I think I am glimpsing why. And, luckily, we're both feeling the same.