2023-02-26 Journal Entry

🍃 Season: ❄️ Winter 🔆 Weekday: Sunday 🗓 Date: February 26, 2023 📅 Week: Feb 20 – Feb 26, 2023

As much as I’ve spent literally the entire day thinking about writing, and writing if you squint your eyes real hard, but I haven’t actually had my fingers moving over the keyboard quite the way I’d like to. I’m going to start writing a story and see where it goes, because I’m fucking sick and tired of not doing that and thinking a ton about the “plot” and the “characters” or whatever. So here’s a story.

The movers were parked out front, and I was surprised to see just how little was coming out of the truck. A sofa and a dresser, sure, but they didn’t bring in the desk and the kitchen equipment from the old house. She got to keep all of those.

All in all, it was only enough furniture to fill in about half the house. The living room was somewhat full, but the bedroom and kitchen of this place were going to be eerily empty.

This won’t be my first night sleeping on the floor though. That had happened on a few occasions: once after a long bout of drinking and my bedroom was simply too far to walk; another when a friend had offered his place to crash while I was visiting, only to realize how little space was in their studio apartment; and the most recent time on an unexpectedly cold layover in LaGuardia.

I wanted to stay out of the movers’ way, so I watched idly from the front steps of the apartment building. There were only two other units in this storybook-style building. Our building was visible from a few streets up my its somewhat outlandish turret that marked the corner of Kirkham and 9th.

A young couple came down the steps behind me, both with downcast eyes and arms crossed. I thought for a moment of leaving them be, but decided against it. “Are you the folks in the top unit?” I asked.

The two looked at each other, deciding who would respond, and the woman replied “Oh no, we were just there to see Ms. Trill.” I nodded and thanked them. They continued on behind me. Hopefully I had cut the tension of whatever bad news they seem to have heard.

The street was oddly quiet for the amount of activity: the Mexican restaurant had a line out the door and the book store had a signing for a local author, but little could be heard beyond the sound of footsteps on the pavement and the occasional revving engine from the few cars on the road.

One of the movers tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a pen, pointing to big boxes on various forms that I was too distracted to read. I left them to pack the remaining dollies and blankets into the moving truck and stepped inside.

The apartment smelled of dust, beams of sunlight reflecting off the hanging cloud around the bay windows. I was wary of how empty the apartment would feel, but there’s a freedom in owning so little. I had forgotten how one could get away with so few possessions. Over the years of married life, my wife and I had slowly accrued a taste for nostalgia. We had gifted each other books, printed photo albums, left wine toppers in a small glass in the kitchen. These trinkets compounded over time as we clung to the memory of every family photo, every ticket stub, every prize from the state fair, each had its place within our home.

But nostalgia turned quickly to indifference when we separated.