Holly Reed The Lady Life Blog


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Dear Apartment: Moving Out and Moving On.

Dear Apartment: Moving Out and Moving On.

Moving Out and Moving On

Dear Little Apartment, 

How are you feeling now? I know your walls are bare and cupboards are emptying. You've been a wonderful place to house my dreams for a while. 

I've let the wisteria that clings to your cladding grow unruly and out of shape. I don't care if the neighbour complains; the birds and wasps love to explore it. The itchy shutters squeak in the wind as I give your windows one last clean in a final act of love. The peeling paint on the front door which only stays closed with a prayer and some spiders webs. My herb garden neglected. 

I took care to make small repairs when comers and goers chose to disrespect your love. Your soft, chalky, blue walls soothed my soul when I needed it most. Your tall windows captured all of the most beautiful light and guided it to our little nursery of tropical plants.

You've been so good to me, Little Apartment. I have made so many wonderful memories here. So many intriguing people have crossed your doorstep. So many intricate secrets were shared inside your walls. So many friendships made. Inside your stone walls, I was safe. 

The painted mural of the harp and the abundance of clover on the pathway. You were truly made to be a home from Irish home. Cave de la Harpe. Open windows into the winding pathways of the grapevine. All the way to the foot of Lac Leman. Shadowed by Mont Blanc and the rest of the Alps. 

I'm not ready to leave you, Little Apartment, but my hand has been forced. I have to be ready. You've kept me so safe and cocooned while I healed from the world but now it's time to take flight. Too comfortable getting. To soft becoming. The healing was done. The bones strengthened. It's now or never. 

They want to fix you up, Little Apartment. I hope they take care of you. I hope you keep your creaky, warped wood steps or the spiral stone stairs worn into a gentle slope. I loved to see the teeth of the night sky through your missing roof tiles. The wind whistling. Earth spinning below. I hope you don't lose the lingering smell of fermenting wine that wafted up from your once bustling cellar. You're walls may change but your heart will remain the same. 

I must leave you now, Little Apartment. I know I'll be okay. My simple home shared with spiders and freaky centipedes. I will miss your sunlight; sharing coffee by the open window of the kitchen while the neighbour played the piano, the water fountain trickled and the birds sang their hearts out. The cold tiles soothing on a hot night. 

I hope who ever lives here after me will appreciate you as much as I do. 

Goodbye, Little Apartment. I'll always cherish you. 


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