And with a slight movement and a handshake…it finishes. Eight excellent years and in a single day, winding down to empty…with a sigh and a jangling of old, worn keys.
The grounded and settled feeling of never moving, of constantly shifting into the dust…fades, just at the moment when nesting into the very cracks of the wall begins. While believing the cornices and worn rugs belong to me…just at the edge of indecision, the air suddenly shifts and it is once again, time to move on. Always upward, always improving, always forward, always better…a quick walk through painted halls, a hand clutching gently around the splintered edges of the attic doorway…old stairs and the window looking out onto the gritty city…those impossibly high kitchen cupboard shelves.
A smudge of candle wax here, a dusty framed line of a favorite print staring out from an abandoned wall, a stenciled mantle and the stove where so many happy meals bubbled and steamed…empty, clean and bereft…alone and awaiting new tenants.
They stand, shiftlessly in the driveway as silly details are discussed…the detritus of city living. A transient American approach to residence…collecting enough stuff to be a complete nuisance, leaving enough behind to be painful, shedding just enough to be practical…done. And they do not know the life lived there…they have no understanding of those painted walls and candle gloams, the strange next door neighbor who waves only when greeted…they do not know. I do not see them as I stride by…there is no connecting point between us. I do not like what I see and I do not like what I feel.
My eight years belong to me. My heart butts up against their new adventure…they do not know and I shall not tell them. They hold the old jangling keys, but they own no entry to my heart…
690 Saint Paul 