When I move, I will miss the sounds you make in the morning, when you lift yourself up off the ground, stomach to knees, elbows behind your head. Huff "one", huff "two", "huff", three. Some people wake up to the chime beep bop boop BUZZ of an alarm clock. I wake up to the dulcet tones of you doing what you do best -- making the best with what you've got. Keeping everything in tip top shape.
When I move, I will miss the flood of scent that accosts me. I know what kind of evening (or morning) it's going to be as soon as I cross the threshold. Sometimes it's Oliver's urine dotted all over the apartment, after a string of blazing hot 100+ degree days, no air conditioning to keep everything on an even keel. This is going to be a tough night. Other times, it's a sweet waft of tuberoses, just like the ones I bought you by accident instead of sterling roses, when I was eight, in an effort to make sure, even at my smallest age, that I knew you, that I wanted to connect, that I wanted to please. This is going to be a lovely afternoon. The best days are when I open the door and the smell of fajitas has been seducing me the moment I opened the car door in the drive way. I walk up the three small flights of stairs, huff huff huff, I fumble with the keys, and finally get the door open. The wall of deliciousness accosts me. I consent. Our family home cooking is what I will miss the most. No one makes rice like you, Mommy. Yes, I've finally been brainwashed enough to agree with you. Yes to garlic, yes to peppers, yes to onions, yes to meat, yes to rice, yes to one more memorable meal with you.
When I move, I will miss the glorious sight of you sitting on your new throne, your chaise lounge that you've always wanted, drinking your white wine spritzer, the one I've given you so much shit about, and have told you that you can't order in person, because it's too embarrassing for me to be around, but the very one that signals to me that it's going to be a wonderful night. The light dancing across your face as you smile your widest inebriated smile. I look for my poison in the kitchen, some of the bottles covered in dust, some of the other bottles covered in frost. Dirty cocktail shaker in the sink. I find my favorite, my beautiful bourbon, and I watch it drip like super thin honey washing over the single ice cube, that I now need to accompany it with. So cold in my hand. I walk the few feet to our couch, and I see the shadows across your face from the light having changed, assuring me that it's late enough to drink with you. Your smile again, and away we go.
When I move, what I will miss the most, is the feeling of finally *feeling* home. I will miss the texture of our twenty year old carpet on my feet. The very one that I have vomited, fucked, cried, laughed, and have healed on. I will miss the softness of your beautiful face next to mine as you come into my bedroom every morning and each night, and kiss me sweetly good day and good evening. I will miss the slippery tile in the big bathroom, although it's the smaller one, but it's the one that we all share, the one we've all learned to compromise with. I will miss the tender bruises on my knees from falling in that very tub so often. I will miss the release of tension every twenty fucking minutes on my bed after Oliver jumps off one Mommy Den, just to go to the other Mommy Den.
When I move, for the second time, I will keep within me, the beautiful tapestry of home that we have woven altogether, the one that took 36 years to build. And I will begin anew, hoping that you will visit me, often, in the next piece add to it.