Last night, Nate and I went back… We didn’t get out of the car, because the place isn’t ours anymore. But we sat in the car a moment, looked up at the three-story, apartment building, and remembered our first home together.
“Why do I miss it so much?” Nate asked.
“Why do I?” was my reply.
We were so happy to leave it behind in January. Not because it hadn’t been good to us. On the contrary, it had been a cozy first home.
It’s just that our perfect little place hadn’t felt so safe after the people moved onto the floor below us. I’m not sure what scared me more — the underage drinking, the obvious drug use, the screaming, or the frequent police raids. Nate worked nights at the time, so I’d lie in bed — alone — clutching my Rachel Ray frying pan for protection.
One night, there was an extremely loud and violent drug raid. I crept out of the bedroom to look out the living room window when I saw the shadows of men on my front porch. They were hiding from the police… and by the noise they made, also quite drunk. I have never been so scared in my entire life as I locked myself in the bedroom and called 9-1-1.
Days later, we found an ad for the house that was soon to be our new home. It felt like a miracle. And it was. Here I feel safe… and Nate works days now because — since then — I have refused to be home alone at night.
So why do I miss that small apartment with its leaky roof, drafty walls, and scary tenants?
It was home. Our first home. And you can’t get anymore special than that, no matter how simple the place may have been.
So it was nice going back… remembering. But it was even nicer coming back to our new home. Here we’re safe. And here we’ll make many new, special memories together.