In three months, someone else will be living in my apartment.
They’ll be figuring out how to unjam the door knob that still catches me off guard on some sleepy, early mornings. They’ll be learning just how thin the walls are and just how much the next-door neighbor likes to play Alanis Morissette songs from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. They’ll wake up to the dulcet tones of neighbors rattling up and down the fire escape.
If they’re as lucky as I have been, they’ll find the time to spend a few lazy, rainy mornings sitting under the bedroom window, watching the pane dew up, listening to soft music, trying to ignore my neighbor’s Alanis Morissette music, cross stitching and sneaking in a few chapters of a goofy romance novel or a nonfiction book about pirates (I’ll try to stuff both in the bathroom cupboard so the next tenants have choices).
In three months, someone new will be calling my home of two years a home of their own.
With so little time left to spend calling the hardwood floors or the tall closets or the in-unit washer and dryer mine, it’s hard not to dwell on this upcoming transition and to wonder if the tenants over the last five years, whose mail we still receive on a concerningly frequent basis, felt the same.