We are moving. This is evidenced in our home by boxes and bubble wrap and tape guns strewn on tables and stacked in corners. We are going from here to somewhere else. So goes our belongings. It’s funny how moving makes everything feel new again. Not unfamiliar or shiny, that’s not what I mean by new. I mean unbroken. Untarnished. The edges all smooth, not chipped. No missing pieces.
The lingering irritation you might have felt with your home before you began to pack falls away. It is replaced by the whimsy of memory. You love, again, the creaking 100 year old floors that are beautiful but grating when you just want to pee in the middle of the night without waking up your son.
You suddenly realize you will miss briskly walking fifteen blocks home from dinner in the bitter cold, or the scent of garbage mixing with baking bread as you do. There will be a certain emptiness, and yes, peace to your morning now that the intoxicated local woman who brings your dog treats from the liquor store, won’t be able to violate your personal space on the benches outside Connecticut Muffin.
There is a loneliness to going about your day without a stranger asking how much you pay in rent, or telling you you’re too young to be a mother.
There is a disconcerting quiet to a world without city noise. A world where your son and his best friend can’t migrate back and forth between your home and your upstairs neighbors home.
We are happy to begin a new adventure, but it is with weeping we pack up this one. The charms of Brooklyn, which read like annoyances to outsiders, are what make this life here what it is. It is odd encounters with rough diamonds. It is food for the creative. It is the city that never sleeps, but that reminds you why you must.
Tonight I remember the joys, not the heartache, of being a transplant in the five boroughs. In my borough. In Brooklyn. In the future when I visit, I will once again be an outsider, but for a couple more days, I am a Brooklynite. And I am proud.