There's No Place Like Home

It's always a little melancholy to move, isn't it?

Even when you're ready to move on. Even when the place is too small to fit into your big plans anymore.

But still, a place becomes your home. You love it, in your own way, even when you kind of hate it.

When we listed Ray's condo I didn't think it would sell anytime soon. I figured we had at least a few more grand months in it before we got frustrated of it not selling. By then we'd be too relieved to miss it.

It was on the market for 10 days before a deal was forged. Instead of reveling in our final months and weekends there, we spent them packing.





For two years we had the best of both worlds. A short walk to Hyde Park Square from my house, with Graeter's and the Echo and all the grass and crickets we wanted. On weekends we had his downtown condo, with new bars and restaurants and OTR right in our backyard.

From his place Ray could walk to work and not have to worry about parking downtown. It was great, until he started spending every night with me. Then suddenly having two places didn't seem all that great anymore.

Somehow we outgrew two places.

Even though we were grateful it sold so quickly, we packed feeling sad it was gone so fast and reminiscing about our time there.

We had our first kiss in his windowsill. On Sundays he'd cook us nice dinners, to ease us back into the workweek.

We hung Charlie Harper prints in the bedroom. 





And we spent the entire winter putting together a puzzle.





And drank coffee and read the paper on his rooftop when it warmed up again.







He lived there for six years. In a lot of ways, it was like saying goodbye to an old friend.

Before we locked the door the final time, Ray left the new owner a bottle of wine and a note saying he hopes she loves the place as much as he did. 

I felt like leaving his condo a note: It's not you, it's us.