Exit

A whole week passes in a fog of moving boxes, of mementos packed and stories discarded. The first days so well organized; by the end, ladles are tossed in with books and curtain rods. We scrub tiles, carry recycling. Friends come by the dozens, shuttling goods down too many flights of stairs; their laughs echo up the stairwell and I love them immensely. We sit in the courtyard and drink champagne, build our histories, our geographies. When I last lock the apartment door, it is no longer ours. It smells of lemons and wood polish, a white canvas awaiting new artists. I drag my last bags to the train; within minutes of leaving the city, of running into the green, still countryside that I’ve known for so many years, I sleep.

It seems all I do is move out, lately. July spreads out before me, a summer of homeless vagabondery, of friends’ couches and traveling adventures. My head swims with words yet unwritten, my heart with gratitude for the beauty of it all. My cup runneth over; I run gladly, into whatever this way comes.