My brother generously donated a half shit-ton of frequent flyer miles, and brought my baby to me. Right now she’s on the plane back to Chicago.
She loves the apartment, especially the kitchen, and the view. We’re convinced that when she comes for good next year, we’ll stay in this location but get a bigger place on the top floor a little ways up the hill. And if we do, it’s quite possible we may never leave.
We had a fantastic time together. Farmer’s Markets and restaurants, guitar shops and book stores, grocery shopping and thrift shops, MAX trains and SUV’s, baked beans and banana bread.
We strapped things to the roof of the rental car, we went up and down some ungodly hills, we walked in the rain and sat in the sun.
She brought me homemade jam and butter tarts that I will eat, and zucchini bread that I will not. Together we bought, fetched or scavenged a TV, a stand to set it on, a love seat, a desk, some bowls, a peeler, a bread pan, and some spatulas. She left behind a pony tail holder, two worn out Ziploc bags, and a half-eaten Qdoba burrito — which was delicious.
She had never been here before. But somehow, this place has never been more empty now that she’s gone.