How to leave

Around 6 o' clock last evening I went up to water the farm, and to pick some eggplants (I still want to call them aubergines) for our supper.

I wondered about planting cool weather greens. There is an open pot, now, calling for salad leaves. But we will be leaving at the end of October

While the Frenchman and I were prepared to absorb the radical, $600/month rent increase our landlord had imposed, we were not prepared for some of the conditions in his new lease. Like no cats. After ten years. While there is plenty of room for legal maneuvering, this is a battle in which we have chosen not to engage. It is clear that it is time to retreat, and to cut our ties with this lovely little space.

And it will cease to be lovely the minute we leave the building. Loveliness is the ember we carry with us.

It goes where we go.

At least, that is what I am telling myself.

I cannot pretend to be happy about it. But I feel strangely at peace. At least we know, now.

There will be moments of raw sadness, especially at this time of year, when the light is heartbreaking. The colours and shapes and textures I know so well change with the rising and falling light. The intense comfort of familiarity. The terrace's botanical clock.

There is a lot to look forward to. A new New York adventure. Murmurs of an apartment around the corner. Thoughts about Jackson Heights, Queens, and its glittering hot rooftops and Babelesque inhabitants. New food, new sounds, new subway line. The first step on a longer journey that will take us even farther away.

Perhaps it is easier to leave by degrees.