‘s weird to be packing up The Boyo’s apartment.
When he moved here, four years ago
(almost to the day),
I remember trying to cheer him up about this place–
the landlady showed him a different unit initially,
one with more cupboard space,
with a closet in the second bedroom;
instead he got one with considerably less room,
with a den instead of a bedroom,
and cupboards made for people who don’t cook.
And I remember wondering,
in the face of this huge setback,
how long he would manage to stay in Los Angeles
before fleeing back to the green and familiarity of Oregon.
But he stayed.
This place is a testimony to White Flight.
The neighborhood has gotten exponentially worse in these four years–
More helicopters at night.
More loud neighbors
(Praise-and-Worship-at-7:00am-Girl, I’m glaring at you).
The company that owns the building doesn’t make repairs on time,
they belong to the “just give it a coat of paint, and that’ll fix it” camp.
The rent isn’t low enough to justify living here any longer;
that, and getting robbed last October was kinda the nail in the coffin
(especially since the management knew that someone
suspicious had been reported, and refused to notify the tenants).
I am deeply glad that he’ll be leaving here.
I don’t think he’s ever felt at home in this apartment.
I’ll miss this place.
Four years is a long time to make memories.
To make those little rituals that we love so much.
And I kinda feel like we’re leaving them behind,
or just packing them away forever.
Even the best moves are bittersweet.
Goodnight, little apartment.
Goodnight, stupid triangular cupboard that nothing ever fit in.
Goodnight, pictures that hung on the walls.
Goodnight, little kitchen we cooked in.
Goodnight, courtyard, chain-smoking ladies, Ranchero-party-people.
Goodnight, sunset beams on the bedroom walls.
Goodnight, so many things loved and hated alike.