there’s something unsettling about my dad’s news that he’s leaving his apartment. the apartment he rented just so my sister and i could come and live with him when we had nowhere else to go. the winding staircase, the dark, narrow hallway and the small windowless corner of the apartment that was going to be my bedroom. my wide, hopeful eyes when my dad asked me what i thought. i didn’t have to say a word — he opened his wallet counted up the cash for the deposit then and there. everything was going to be okay, and it was.
eight and a half years in that little apartment above the optometrist. painting and re-painting, old boyfriends and movies, insomnia. writing outside on the fire escape in the dead of night, the dead of winter. first and new friendships and learning to open up to something unfamiliar. being with someone in a strange and different way, a pure way. green lamplight.
carnegie gallery rooftop parties and the heat in the kitchen. friends from what felt like every corner of the earth. sublime and snes. hanging a backwards clock in a windowless dining room just to find a way to forget the rest of the world exists — turning on all the lights and pretending 3am is noon. the sounds of the midway in the backyard, friends puking into buckets in our hallway. falling up the stairs. chelsea maglelsky. spacing out, sketching out, hangovers. high school.
the front stoop.
the sound of the street-level door swinging, the sound that brought its share of hopes, excitement and anxieties. everything we all had when we first moved into our eight-year home. we couldn’t have known if it was going to work, or if we were going to work together, or if we’d be able to make it just the three of us. we had some real low points. real low points. but we made it. that little apartment, that narrow little apartment helped us make it. we wouldn’t have been the same without it.
king street apartment, you are the best.