Moved

On moving morning I woke up for reasons unknown when it was still dark. I shuffled on my Birks and went to the rooftop pool. Dawn swimmers with flipping in their caps and I sat with nothing in a slated deck chair watching the sun come up one last time.

It feels both more real and not to be living in a new city because we drove. It took four hours longer to pack the van than anticipated. Pillows and sugar containers being flung into the trash. A homeless man walked by and asked if we needed help. I kept shrugging. We’re almost done. Puhg paid him ten bucks to bring our mattress down. I sat on the curb in my sports bra. Cried during the final walkthrough. “This was perfect for us,” we repeated, and then we just had to get out. Pie in Joliet. It didn’t seem so bad. An envelope labeled “snack emergency.” The drive to St. Louis soundtracked by my high school mix cds. I never thought they’d come back, but here they are in a Hello Kitty case. Mom and I stayed up until 2 talking over fake chicken.

In Oklahoma City we had a cold room and blue lemonade. I ran two fast miles in the gym before a hip biscuit joint. I try to imagine living there, and all the places we pass. It is a coping mechanism to know if one city falls apart there’s a whole country to choose from. But I don’t think I like football enough. Although I bet there are lots of people who don’t like football enough, and they may need more friends who also don’t like football enough. The marsh gives way to dust, and soon it’s Albuquerque. I feel right in the desert. It’s in my bones and always has been. We have sopapillas and a pretty city light view.

The AC busts, and we try frantically to get it fixed in Payson, but everything is shut or full. We stand outside for an hour with a mechanic. I buy a stress cherry donut. The windows are down and the seats are hot. Salad with family merged into pizookie with my girls. We don’t even talk about anything important, but I sneak in the front door flying high from the memories and ice cream. The latter wakes me up at 5:30, and it’s just as well. I give myself a sloppy wet top knot and pack ice cubes. We make a break for it, and although it’s loud on the highway, it’s okay until about three hours from LA. The traffic is stopped and the sun beats in, and I feel insane. I haven’t eaten. There’s nothing to eat. I almost give up two miles from the final destination. Head on the steering wheel. And then do we rest? Oh no. We unpack and unpack, a dozen trips up and down back and forth. And when it’s all scattered everywhere I find a towel and shower and we walk a block and eat overpriced delicious tuna sandwiches. My first dinner in Chicago four years ago was a Butterfinger from Walgreens, so I get one from the Albertson’s and eat it in bed, asleep by 9 PM.

I didn’t know my last full day would be my last full day. Puhg says people are obsessed with cinematic endings, and that’s never how it is. He's probably right. He didn’t care where we had dinner, didn’t know his last time at the gym would be, in fact, his last time at the gym. I shook and hemmed, took in a final walk to my coffee shop, felt blessed by the sparkles on the lake. The sun was setting in the empty living room. We sat on the floor and watch the sky hot pink to grey.