In fact, this young man seems pleased at the condition of my
place and the scenic view from my expansive windows. But when I reveal the bedroom, which is concealed
behind a sliding door, he folds his arms and says, "I'll have to switch
out the bed for king-size."
"That's a shame," I tell him, "it's only a
year-and-a-half old." We both stare at the full-size box spring and
mattress, with Anthony envisioning how to fit in a new larger one. As for me,
I'm conjuring the one I left behind when I moved from the Dakin St. house I
shared with Tommy, to this River North high rise.
In that transition, I used an estate sale to dispose of most
of my furniture and the contents of closets, drawers, shelves, and cupboards.
Poof, 14 years of marital accumulation gone, as if a magician had waved a wand,
making all disappear -except for memories.
With my upcoming move from Chicago to Los Angeles, I am the sorcerer.
Faster than you can say "abracadabra," via a Craigslist ad, I found
Anthony to take over the remaining six months of my lease, thus avoiding a
two-month penalty. The slight-of-hand I used to lure him simply involved accepting
the suggestion of my designer friend,
Karen, and changing the listing from "rental" to "furnished-rental."
"A cross-country moving truck would be too
expensive," I explained to those still reeling from my announcement that I
not only decided to move to L.A., but it would take place in one month's time.
Of course, Anthony isn't concerned with my logic; he had
been seeking a temporary residence until a nearby condo he is rehabbing is
finished, so our quick-change act works out well for both of us.
When we turn to study my mini office with the sapphire blue
desk and bench, Anthony laughs as I say, "you'll never fit there."
My friend Chris, an
artist, not only painted the two pieces a bright color to disguise their
country-style provenance, but he cut the legs to make it fit my four-nine size.
That same blue color transformed our coffee table -- the one
that stood between Tommy's and my facing couches, home for the pencils he used for
his cross-word puzzles, TV remotes, and the Post-it notes that conveyed our chatter
in the last silent years of his life. In this downtown apartment, the table has
held the same props, except for the crossword puzzles. Now, the Post-it notes
are only used for reminders from my buzzing brain.
In that previous move in April 2013, I stood at the living
room window early in the morning awaiting the arrival of the truck that would cart
away my small load. This time, there will be no window watching for I am using
a large grocery cart to transport boxes to a UPS store two blocks
away. Cartons of photographs, previously stored in garages, or basements,
lockers, and closets have already gone to my daughter Jill's home in Los
Angeles.
"Do you want my china?" I asked in a text to her. Six
dinner-sized and six salad-sized Wedgewood were rescued from the set I had left
for the house sale. I've had them for 54 years, 24 longer than the marriage that
brought them.
"Nah," was Jill's first response to my offer. Then
this, "I think I do want those dishes. Yom Kippur realization!" (Some
spiritualism at play here?)
Recently, a neighbor came to my apartment to pick up a scarf
she had left behind at an event we both attended. Because I was in that
neighborhood for a lunch date, I was able to retrieve it for her. "How can
you leave all of this behind?" she said, her eyes tearing as she scanned
the space.
"It's just stuff," I said.
"But, you did such a great job putting it all together."
Later, my therapist suggested that what my neighbor really
meant was, "How can you leave me behind?"
Does my neighbor speak for all of my dear friends whom I'll soon
hug goodbye? Could they really believe I'll allow our relationships to vanish?
Through the magic of airplane travel, e-mail, Facebook, and cell phones, our
ties will endure. We are tightly bound; even the famous Houdini would fail to separate
us.
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