The Last Post From Home #1

Internet connection won’t get up and running at the new place until Saturday, and even then I’m not sure if I’ll have dug the computer out by then to hook it up, so…

I’m too nostalgic. The Wife tells me this all the time. Like tonight, the majority of the packing got done, leaving just some stuff from the bedroom, kitchen and a few odds and ends like power bars, posters and knick knacks here and there. There is a truly impressive pile of boxes in the middle of our apartment.

It was a good apartment.

This is the first apartment we rented together. The first time I ever lived with someone who wasn’t a room-mate I only saw on occasion. We decorated this place, got things like our first rug here, rescued our second cat and kept her, rescued many kittens. I wrote novels and scripts here, she made art here. We used to walk around this neighborhood late at night scavenging for food from 24 hour hawker centers or, more recently, the McDonald’s that went 24 hours.

I know life goes on, and that things will most likely get better. Change is inevitable, and hell, we’re going to be relocating to Canada in several months anyway…

But this was still our first place. It’s where our life started together. We walked into this apartment as a hopeful boyfriend and girlfriend, lived in it as fiances and now we’re leaving it as husband and wife. I keep thinking in some gentle way, maybe some psychic residue of that life has been worked into the fabric of the walls, the floor. Definitely the cigarette smoke anyway. I’m smoking a last one here. The Wife let me get a pack since the move is so stressful anyway, and she didn’t see the harm in indulging it, I behave myself the rest of the time.

I’m not going to weep dramatically or anything. There’s an emotion there, but nothing that over the top. I just keep thinking to myself, “This is where our life together started, and now we’re leaving it.”

It was a good apartment for two psychotic artsey types to just be that with each other.

I’m going to miss it.