You should have seen it.

Anthony told me one time that my house looks like my soul. I want that to be true, but even if it isn't, that's what this move feels like. Like I'm being ripped apart from my soul. This is melodramatic and ridiculous. On the scale of human problems, 'voluntary move to beautiful neighboring city into adorable house with great sister and perfect nephews' doesn't really rate. But leaving my house, oh. I can barely tell you. I stand in the center of each room, swaying and sobbing, hands clasped and curled under my neck. There is now a small finite number times that I will ride my bike home from work and by the time I've turned onto my street, tears are streaming down my face. Three blocks later I get to my house and have to prepare myself to lift my bike up the steps without folding over or staggering from the sobs. My neighbor is going to think I'm dying. I've cried so much in the past couple days.

I can't figure out what is really going on. Surely there must be something deeper, that leaving my house should hurt like this. I keep trying on theories, and they don't ring true. I ran one by Margie. "Maybe I don't want to go because it feels like I failed Sacramento." "Dude," said Margie. "Sacramento failed you." Chris pointed out that neither of those are true. Chris suggested that maybe I don't want strangers living in my house, but that isn't it. The renting guy is, like, a best friend of a best friend. I've heard about him for fifteen years. Besides, I love knowing that my house is sheltering people and taking care of them. And they've been all nice and solicitous about me. So, not that. I'm not mourning my unfinished life here; my life in this house has been good but stagnant for years. The high priority stuff got finished.

No, the closest I come is when I look around my house and think "it is so beautiful." It is. It is such a pretty little bungalow. From the sidewalk, you see through my open front door and big wide windows to bright warm colors. It has plants and red couches and a burnished wood floor and matching old light fixtures. It isn't a shy house. It wants you to come in and be comfortable. I've moved the furniture in every way I thought people would like, parties for five and thirty and a hundred, circles of people eating in my living room. It is a little house, but it was never too small. I lived in every room, with no neglected hollow spaces. I walk through it in the dark, easy as day. I never felt unsafe here, crazy people on the sidewalk or no. I love the house itself, in every dimension.

Chris asked if I wanted to undo my decision. I don't. I want change, and I have to do new things if I want different outcomes. Like I said, when I'm in Oakland, I really like it. I'm excited for my new room, to see what my next self will look like. I sortof love choosing my few favorite things from here, for a distilled version of me there. But oh lord. What I would bring, if such a thing were possible, is my house. I loved living in the spaces and color and feel of it. I love my house.