When we first saw you, you had giant begonias up and down your hallway. You were sad and mourning the loss of the last people you held, and I thought, Wow, they were here for 25 years! How could anyone live here for 25 years? Now we’ve been with you for thirty-something years and you have scars to show for it. The loose floorboards near the bathroom, the chipped paint around the living room door, the aluminum sash windows now oxidized and leaky. They still serve us well. We resist changing them. It would be too invasive, a violation of your soul. We live in the fluidity of your vessel, not needing to turn on a light at night because your bones are as familiar as our own. You have provided us access to the center of the City and made it easy for us to have careers, stay close to friends, and connect to the fabric we call our lives. I’m afraid I’ve taken you for granted sometimes. I’ve punctured your skin, cursed your long narrow rooms and primitive kitchen, the cobwebs, the dry rot, the termites, the peeling paint, the quirky garage door, needing to bend down to lock it every day. Yes, there have been times I’ve seen your flaws, but lately I’ve been reminded of your loyalty, your impartial, non-judgmental welcoming embrace. Now that we’re thinking of renting you out to strangers, I’ve rekindled my love affair with you. Those long narrow rooms also give each of us distance and privacy when we want it. The difficult garage door has kept me physically flexible. The afternoon light warms my heart when I’m blue and can take my breath away at sunset. I love you 544 Vermont Street. It will break my heart to leave you.

*****

Well, its about time you’ve appreciated me. Yah, I’ve mostly kept it together for you all these years. I only asked for a few coats of paint, a new toilet, although that wasn’t my fault, a new water heater or two. Really, not too much to complain about, don’t you think? But I don’t want you to feel guilty about leaving me behind. Don’t worry. You are just two of the many people I’ve taken care of. You’ve been mostly gentle. No dogs, no wild children, no major remodels. You’ve washed me, polished me, taken care of me. And if you’re really going to leave me, let’s have a party to celebrate all the warm, loving, transformative years we’ve spent together.