Eight years were lived here. Fully. We were married here. I was a teacher, instructional coach, assistant principal, project director, and MRL associate here. We adopted Lucy here and watched our family of two become a family of three. We sopped up a lot of water here. We had softball championship celebrations, New Year’s Eve parties, Thanksgiving meals for friends, book clubs, and girls’ nights here. Lots of date nights were spent here. We bought that roomful of Crate and Barrel furniture from Michigan Avenue here. We watched neighbors—some crazy, some sane—come and go. Someone slept in my Jeep here. We’ve been snowed in. We’ve sat outside, eating BBQ food, and eavesdropped on our neighbors out back here. We’ve driven around and around and around, looking for parking spots here. We’ve paid a million dollars in parking tickets on the first Monday and Tuesday of each damn month. Because, no, we just can’t learn. There used to be a crack house next door. Now it’s a nice rental unit. We’ve become regulars at Streets of London, The Irish Snug, Las Margaritas, Parallel 17, Hamburger Mary’s, The Tattered Cover, Walgreen’s, Cheesman Park, and Pasquini’s. We’ve had a lot of pizza here. We watched the old Argonaut get torn down and have done wine tasting at the new Argonaut paradise. We’ve cursed that shitty Laundromat, Smiley’s, again and again. We’ve crossed the street to avoid the bus stop at Colfax and Downing. We’ve advised visitors: ‘Don’t go left.’ I trained for the NYC Marathon here. Eric started running here. Ah, the famous 15 bus has provided story after story here. Bar crawls from the Squire to Sancho’s and every dive in-between. The shows. Oh, the shows. The Fillmore, the Ogden, the Bluebird. Voodoo Donuts is coming a few weeks too late. We’ve watched them paint the outside pink. Sprouts sprouted. Our stuff was stolen—not here—but on a weekend away from here. The irony. I got my PhD here. We lost weight, gained weight, lost weight, gained weight here. I got Lasik here. We’ve been well, we’ve been sick, we’ve been well here. We’ve been blissful. We’ve cried and had meltdowns here. (Mainly me.) We’ve moved the family room, painted with red, and installed new hardwood floors after the water main break here. We’ve added cork after cork after cork to our hanging display. We’ve managed to make it across Colfax safely. It’s a game of Frogger every single day. We’ve warded off begger after begger here. We’ve given our leftovers to our local homeless men. We’ve let crazy people pet our Lucy around here. We’ve tripped over the broken sidewalks, bumped bumpers trying to parallel park. We’ve defended our city, our neighborhood, our corner, to suburbanites again and again. We’ve watched it all change. Starbuck’s arrived, new 7-11’s came in, the Rockbar closed down, our favorite coffee shop opened across the street. The grit remains, though. Luckily. Many an evening and Sunday afternoon were spent on a patio, watching the show pass by. The Ramada served as our guestroom. We’ve made amazing friends here. We’ve cursed our historical building and then we hugged it. We loved its brick walls, hardwood floors, and open spaces. We’ve hated the lack of doors, lack of storage, lack of parking. Half our stuff is in the storage space down the street. We’ve watched the feet go by out our windows. We’ve. Lived. Here. REALLY lived. It held our memories for eight years.
We sold it.