Last Times
We have entered the countdown to Last Times. For Michael, the countdown is already complete—his Last Time at jazz night, our Last Casual Dinner at his mom’s, our Last Walk around the neighborhood. Between the two of us, I’m the sentimental one, ready to ritualize and commemorate anything. However, I hardly had a chance to do so, as the days leading up to his departure disappeared and suddenly we woke up late on a Saturday morning, faced with the overwhelming task of packing his car and sending him off to Colorado.
Michael’s new employer asked him to be in Boulder by May 3rd, so this past weekend we finally loaded his car full of boxes of china and duffels of clothes, and he drove his 2003 Toyota Camry the thousand miles to where we’ll be staying, in my parents’ basement. At present, I have stayed behind to pack the house and spend a few final weeks playing tourist.
This past Saturday afternoon, Michael took a break from packing up his multiple monitors in the back office to find me lying prone on our bed.
“All the time got away from me,” I moaned. I told him I’d wanted our last days to feel special and celebratory, but they mostly felt frantic and rushed. Michael came and lay down next to me on top of the blankets.
“This has been such a good first home for us,” he said. We went through the house and thanked all the rooms: the living room for being our world during lockdown; the dining room for all the special meals with candles and flowers and wine; the back office for holding our working and scheming. We thanked the front yard laden with lawn furniture for being the place where we ate brunch every Saturday, and we thanked the kitchen with its long counters for giving us a place to cook and experiment and laugh and do the hustle.
I don’t have any photos of the day Michael drove away from 1810 W Main, but I have a photo of the day we first got our key. Michael’s hair is just past his ears and puffed with humidity; he looks like he could be 14. It’s a surprising photo, given that this was our first home together when we got married.
When I had to move out of my apartment on Anita Street—my beloved apartment, where I lived alone for a year—I sat on its uneven tile floor and looked around thinking, How will I ever find another place I’ll love as much as this?
And then Michael and I moved onto W Main Street and got to make a home together. Now, as I sit in the sun-flooded living room, watching the silhouettes of oak leaves shimmer across the floor, I marvel that I ever doubted.
After a harrowing month-long online property search from a thousand miles away, Michael and I have signed the lease for our next place. Since he’s already in Colorado, he got to go see it in person. After leaving, he called me to say, “We’re going to love living there so much.”
Meanwhile, I’m still in Houston making my way through Last Times: Last Visit to the Chess Tree. Last Trip to Surfside Beach. Last Slow, Loving Walk All the Way Down Beulah Street.
