One last sunset

It seems surreal to be sitting here right now.

The sun streaming through the windows, bathing this place in warmth as it makes its descent for the evening.

A part of me can’t believe I’m giving this view up.

It’s been a while since I’ve voluntarily moved addresses – most of my previous moves have been driven by someone else’s decision or a major life event. This time it’s a bit different – but a bit the same.

I’ve always dreamed of living in an urban townhouse, a place nestled off a bustling throughway, full of light, filled with the music and smells of the city, and in case of emergency, everything you need within walking distance away.

Westwood was never meant to be the end-all-be-all of my dream, but it some ways, it gave me a taste of what I yearned for (and still do).

Moving here was a split-second decision, made when we needed a place to go on someone else’s timeline. It was “good enough”, affordable enough, and close enough to my job that we gave it a go, knowing we could always leave after a year if it didn’t work out.

It’s been six years and a few months.

Now you can see why it’s getting a bit misty in here.

This little abode saw me through professional highs and personal lows, job changes, life changes and everything in between. This home made it safe for me to venture out into the world on my own, remaining a safe place of comfort to come home to after discovering someplace new. It’s been a place I could lean on when I needed a mental break, a place that listened when no one else would, a place still connected when I needed to disconnect, and a place I could truly be myself.

And then COVID hit.

The little things that were “fine” when the world was outside your front door, the tradeoffs we dealt with, suddenly became causes of great anxiety and paralyzing fear. Leaky roofs and ceilings, the weird brown carpet we were always covering, outdoor spaces overrun by the (smoking) neighbours, hot water that was scarce for too many months, and an oven that might be older than me – when stay at home orders make your home the only place you’re allowed to go, the little things turn from fine to fear. Earlier this week, during the craziest thunderstorm ever, I was done with this place when a critter set up shop in the attic over my bedroom.

But then the storm passed and the sun rose again, putting on the good filter and showing us everything we’ll miss. I’ll miss being a bus ride away from downtown. I’ll miss the skyline views that only come in winter when the leaves are gone and the Nationwide logo shines through our windows. I’ll miss the horrible singer on the patio at the terrible pub at the end of the street, reminding us of one of the sounds of summer in the city. I’ll miss hearing the flights taking off for the west coast soaring over my roof leaving the airport each morning. I’ll miss the fall Saturday nights when the windows are open and you can hear the entire block cheering for our beloved Buckeyes in their latest night game. I’ll miss my second-story window peeking out over the street, providing comfort and curiosity at the same time, perched out over my neighbourhood.

And I’ll miss these west-facing windows, bathing our place in sunlight, every evening for most of the year.

Thank you, Westwood, for being the comfort that you were during a time I needed it the most. I’ll miss you terribly.