I can't live here

HOME

Last week, I had brunch in my old neighbourhood.

I was served by the same waiter at the same boutique hotel cafe I frequented many afternoons, laptop on the table beside a cup of tea or hot chocolate.

Across the street were my memories.

I could see my old apartment through the glass of the cafe. The first place my daughter and I called home after I was awarded full custody. The place I cried when my agent called and told me I would be a published author. The same place I had get togethers nearly every weekend; craft nights, wine and weed parties, DJ battles. I made up reasons to celebrate and gather the people I cared about most.

But as I was hit with this swarm of nostalgia, I said to myself: “I can’t live here.”

Not anymore. Not with who I am now.

Sometimes where you live reflects where you are in your life. That’s been true of all of my homes.

The home I’m in now is serene. I’m writing this from the room I converted to an office that overlooks the lake. In warm weather, I stand on my back balcony some mornings and watch the sun rise over that same lake. In the evenings, I sit on my living room balcony and watch the sun set. My days are filled with walks through forested paths, weekend barbecues in the park, silent moments staring at short waterfalls. If I had to describe where I am in my life, that’s pretty much it.

My old apartment was about excitement. Random trips to the bar on a Tuesday turning into all nighters. Late night phone calls from friends who were in the area and wanted to stop by. Walking to Trinity Bellwoods on a Saturday and seeing an art market, then seeing someone I know exhibiting, which turns into evening drinks at a live show that night. This was my life.

It isn’t anymore.

I can’t live there.

Because I live here.

Because I am here.

Isn’t life beautiful…