Reach The Beach

I suppose any time someone moves away from their home, no matter how much they didn't like where they were living, there will always be those "little things" that we'll miss from time to time.

Like my little picnic table in the small clearing over toward the side of my building. I sort of refer to it as "mine" because nobody ever seemed to use it, as my more inconsiderate neighbors often preferred to sit on the stairwells going up to the apartments instead, and just as often don't bother to move out of the way when you want to actually use the stairs to go up or down and have to step over their bodies as if I am the one inconveniencing them (grrrr some things I definitely won't miss). But I spent many a scorching hot summer afternoon at this bench tanning my infected upper arms while reading my Flann O'Brien book, or a boggy summer evening watching the fireflies flit through the tall grassy reeds over there in the background. Just as many a bracing winter tucked into my wool coat watching the snow fall, or just listening to my iPod under the bright winter stars. Here, I drew in my sketchpad. I worried over money. I stressed over work. I daydreamed about travel. I imagined myself sitting across from a variety of different people and having peculiar but stimulating conversations. And I wished to be living someplace else. I think I wound up planning so much of my future at this little bench that it can't help but become a permanent fixture of my past.

My closing day is Thursday. That is, if everything keeps moving at its current momentum.

My God. So much has happened to me at this little apartment.

I'm feeling oddly sentimental this afternoon.