A Groovy Kind of Love(Nostalgia)...

I woke up for the last time in my apartment on the fringe of Roland Park and began the day at the One World for the House Omelette (spinach, cheese, tomato, and sprouts) with home fries and multigrain toast and vanilla almond coffee. Then I came home to start the rigors of last minute packing, arranging, and taking down.

I wrestled with my full size mattress and box spring to get them standing against the wall; I collapsed the iron frame, then I gathered up some stuff that will have to, based on awkwardness--the kind of stuff that you have to put in paper or plastic bags--be taken over in Sarah's car either tonight or tomorrow morning. I began sweeping and dusting; I boxed up my printer; I remembered the last of the vanilla vodka; I opened up a Black Cherry Vanilla Diet Coke and made a makeshift cocktail (emptied the bottle so I could throw it out at last); I had a long talk with my mother which both charmed me and frustrated me--but it was endearing, her usual shennanigans and idiosynchracies. Then I decided to empty the trash and to begin cleaning the bathroom and kitchen again. A much lighter round than I did a couple of days ago, but I started thinking about my security deposit (not much, but it will help) and how I don't want to give these people any reason not to give it back to me in full. All this while listening to N*E*R*D in my iTunes library which quickly became Nat King Cole--and soon I was packing to The Christmas Song ("Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire") while the spring breeze flapped and snapped through my open windows. The movers called to confirm; I moved money from savings to my checking account; I clicked on Phil Collins's Greatest Hits. A Groovy Kind Of Love always makes me think of being 14, of Jonathan Mcklveen, how how he climbed my balcony that one day. Just to talk to me.