I stood in my old apartment one last time last week as I returned the keys.
The carpet was worn and torn. The walls marked by nails, scrapes and a few cobwebs up high in the loft space. The late evening sun poured in through the windows. Four years earlier it smelled of fresh paint and new carpet and the view of the Santa Monica mountains seemed breathtaking. As I stood in the renewed emptiness of that worn space I marveled at how quickly it had all gone.
Four years was a long time but passed like a thought. I felt that I should be doing something other than standing there in the silence.
Of course, in the end it was just a few walls and windows. It was the place I slept, watched TV and movies, played my computer games and occasionally entertained guests. I'll keep doing the same as I have done within so many other sets of walls and windows. On the flip side I've only lived in one other set of rooms for longer. Were I also leaving behind my job and my friends perhaps it would have meant more but as the door closed behind me it was relief I felt. Moving had been, as always before, a grueling ordeal. No wonder I had waited four years.