They don’t tell you how much work it is, living alone. All this maneuvering of furniture, lifting of heavy things. And the garbage! Did you know that I am forced to take out my own garbage?
All those things we don’t think about. All the little things that we never noticed another person doing.
The first few months are a blur now: cleaning, unpacking, de-bugging. The previous tenant had, apparently, never opened the windows, never turned on a light. The cobwebs, or, as I came to know them, “grandma’s undies”, hung from the ceiling, the corners, clung to the baseboard in dingy, drooping failure. And the bugs! The bugs were numerous, adventurous little creatures. There were those that I couldn’t identify, things with pincers or too many legs, things that took up residence in nightly dreams of climbing and falling.
And as all things do, it changed. The house was scrubbed, the crunchy little beasts are now homeless.
A large rug covers the stain on the carpet. A wooden galleon with a clock in its belly sits on the mantle, telling time with a self-satisfied hum.
I love my place. I admire the wooden shutters over the seven windows in the living room. I marvel at its high ceilings.
I lay back on the couch, stare at the coffered living room ceiling. Someone has painted it a rather vibrant yellow, and I picture myself on a ladder, paint in my hair, a damp rag at the ready.
I live alone now.
It’s far more work than I remember, but things are looking up.