I asked my tenant if I could show my place to a friend of mine who’s considering moving in. We both agreed the best time would be this Saturday when she wasn’t around. I’ve been fearing the re-entry, knowing that little things out of place would upset me–an anal retentive, highly-organized freak.
As I feared, I got upset. The bathroom light was on. The mirrors were smudged. Several light bulbs were dead, but not replaced. Travel books from my bookshelves were missing. The bedroom was a mess. I couldn’t tell whether my cleaning lady had come by or not. I saw her signature stripes down the couches, proving she had indeed vacuumed them, but was that from several weeks ago? The place didn’t look tidy at all.
My instant reaction was to clean up a little, to dust, to vacuum. The trimming on one of my lamps had fallen. I wanted to superglue it back on. But I refrained. It’s not my place anymore. This is not my home. I tried to calm down and asked my friend to please excuse the mess when he came by. I may own my home, but it’s just not home anymore. Home is this lovely studio in Lower Nob Hill, close to work, and side-by-side with Dean.
It’s ready for a new owner in September so I’ll only have a few days from when my current tenant moves out and prior to Burning Man to really do a final clean-up before I say good-bye again.
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