No such luck. I felt hungover despite a recent history clear of alcohol, and Charley could sense my restlessness and stood like a mountain goat on my bladder until I schlepped over to let him pee. His awareness of human anatomy is uncanny.
Ages later, the alarm sounded, and we began the grind: pack a box, scrub some gunk, donate some knicknacks, calm Jared. Pack a box, do some laundry, curb a trash bag, calm Jared. I was in the bedroom organizing junk; Jared was packing the car with our entire life. Every few minutes he would run in, point at a pile of stuff, and ask "What is this!? I don't know if it will fit!" as though he had forgotten to use his eyeballs to decipher the abstract shapes into material objects or didn't own approximately 50% of the junk in the pile.
But eventually our apartment went from this:
To this (10 points if you can find Charley!):
To this, at which point Jared announced "I am a packing GOD.":
And we did finally drive away, lacking fingerprints from all the scrubbing, with little more than excitement for the open road before us, preemptive nostalgia for the amazing people we'd no longer have nearby, and mild exhaustion from the exertion of cataloguing every owned thing.
I wanted to offer a token of our appreciation of our time in New York, and especially of our little Brooklyn apartment where so many of our loved ones spent time. Please enjoy:
GOODNIGHT BROOKLYN
by Molly Bowman
Goodnight dappled sunlight,
Goodnight trusty little grill,
Goodnight fire pit,
Goodnight "fixed" leak, if you will.
Goodnight collapsed ceiling,
Goodnight "mold-proof" paint,
This is Maverick, over and out.
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