Tonight is my last night of sleep here, little apartment. Six years and seven months I've lived here, one of the largest stretches I've lived in any home. And being the homebody I am, I've made you mine.
After a sketchy few months in a horrible apartment, you were a safe, quiet place to land. You were small, but the view out my windows was of trees and sky. I put a porch swing on your balcony, strung curtains and lights, and created a dreamy space for reading and writing.
While I've lived here, I've changed jobs, become an auntie, written a book, made new friends, and become a little bit better acquainted with myself. I've spent a lot of time, just with you, little home. My penchant for solitude means it's often just you and me. Sometimes the walls felt very close, but most of the time, you have been a warm, cozy space that filled me with joy and a sense of place.
Tonight I feel sad. I've stripped you of most everything that made you mine. Nothing hangs from your walls anymore, my personality has gone from you. Those quiet moments of shared solitude are almost behind us. In just a few weeks, a stranger will live here, will sit by this window, will watch the trees move in the wind. Soon, you will be someone else's home.
But tonight, I will remember, as I finish the last bits of packing. Tonight I will think of how you've sheltered me, kept me safe, and made me feel home. Goodbye, little home. And thank you.
