When my microwave died, it was all I needed to know it’s definitely time for me to move out. I’ve been praying through the big issues in my life for the last couple of days, and I’d started to wonder if I shouldn’t try to stick it out in my apartment. I wondered if I shouldn’t spare myself the inconvenience of moving, even at cheaper rent, when I’d just have to start paying utilities instead, and deal with the inconveniences of a vintage style apartment. Older buildings don’t have round the clock maintenance, they are more likely to have mice, they can be drafty (or too hot), they have all the character and all of the primitive elements that are throwbacks to a simpler, better time.

Maybe this was as good as it was going to get for me. A couple of friends had been remarking to me that it was too soon to move, that I needed to wait, intimating that my present apartment was fine (and why do I hate it so much?). Then I thought about my awful furniture. I cannot, in the foreseeable future, buy new furniture. I hate the idea of taking the furniture I have now with me to a new place, especially one with character and charm. I can’t bear to do it, and yet if I throw out my sofas and dining set upon taking up residence in a new place, isn’t that the least bit prideful? Who am I to be too good for this black, plastic furniture my sister slaved to buy?

Anyway, Sarah came over for an autumnal brunch on Sunday morning. I made pumpkin spice muffins (with melted butter and a pumpkin & pecan puree), fried potatoes, onions, and garlic, bacon, and eggs (Sarah made herself eggs. I didn’t care to have any). I stuck half of a cup of butter in the microwave to melt it (for the muffin batter). It handled this one last task, then unceremoniously shut off its digital display, and died quietly. It didn’t seem to suffer.

This wasn’t fireworks or histrionics, just the last year and two months of my life winding down in yet another tangible way. I wasn’t particularly close to the microwave. I was glad it was there. I got it for free from the friend of a friend. It was crucial to the base of operations at Chez Krupnik, but I didn’t love it as though I, myself, had worked to buy it, and had chosen it. Still, I needed it to keep working. It was among the last of surprisingly few helpful items that I own.

Its passing has given me permission to hope for something different.